I Want The Mad Ones
by Amarielle
Summary: Yami assumes the role of Yugi's father after a case of physical abuse and trauma claims the boy's memory. Moral: Love is the pouring out of one's self into the completion of another. Finished
1. the pieces are scattered

This idea has been lingering in my somewhat demented mind for quite a while.  While reading the book _The Boy And The Dog Are Sleeping_ by Nasdijj, I decided to put it into words.  Little corners of Yu-Gi-Oh fact may be tattered in this fanfiction.  Little pieces may not make sense.  That's all right.  Don't lecture me on all the facts like I'm deprived of knowledge and really care.  I just had to get this down in writing—even if it's uttered haltingly or awkwardly, even if the time is long between updates and fanfiction.net auto formatting screws everything over.  If this touches some part of you, please endure.  I'll try my very hardest to endure as well.

~~~

The lunchroom hubbub and noise rose and fell in all its glorious cacophony like the flirtatious laughter of a schoolgirl.  The decibel and variety of its childish and oftentimes sordid chatter was like shadows chasing sunlight on the plains—restless and vain. The din, however unpleasant, failed in overpowering the humble conversation of one very particular group of students with whom our story opens and, eventually, will close.

You know them well.

They sit just there, you see, amid the tables of Duel Monsters and Magic the Gathering and Poker and Dungeons and Dragons and Preps and Freaks and Goths and haughty football jockeys who have never experienced anything of pain or suffering.  And there sits this humble group.  I could list them all by name, but you already know each of them in turn.  Except this new girl—her name is Diana Golobay, but that is of little importance.  She is no Mary Sue.  She is no original character.  She is real, just as the other people in this story are real, on some figurative level.

She is new to the others as well, you see.

"How long ago did you say you moved here?"  It was Tristan.

"Well, it's been almost six months now," the girl replied.  "But I was just transferred into Tea's class a few weeks ago.  I remember seeing you guys in the halls and such," she said, "but I didn't get to know anyone 'til I started eating lunch with you."

"Yeah, we've all known each other for a few years," Tea explained.  "We've had some rough spots, but we've helped each other through.  We're real good friends now."

"Like family," Joey added.  "Idn't that right, Yuug?"

The short one with the funny crest of hair—Yugi—smiled at him in response.

"We've been rather inseparable for a while now," the British one agreed.  He was handsome.  The new girl liked him.

But as much as she would have enjoyed staring at his soft features and carrying on some idle humorous chitchat in hopes of eliciting that smile from him, an inconsistency had manifested itself in her reasoning during this particular conversation.  It quite bewildered her, and she felt it required some immediate ramification.

"Yugi," she hailed suddenly, effectively acquiring his attention.  "I was wondering.  You've all known each other for a few years now, right?"

"That's right."

 "I would have remembered that hair of yours, but I'm pretty sure I didn't see you until a couple months after I came here," she continued, her brown eyes taking him in with scrutiny.  "Why didn't I see you around at first?"

The table was suddenly quiet, all other eyes looking away except for dark brown scrutinizing lavender.  The din of the lunchroom had somehow quieted, too, and the girl felt with certain guilt that she had stumbled into forbidden ground.  A chill ran down her spine and she glanced at the others in search of some explanation.

Yugi said nothing.

Joey cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," the new girl mumbled, hopelessly confused.

"We can talk about something else," Joey tried, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"It's okay, Joe," Yugi objected, his voice hollow.  "I have nothing to hide," he said, his eyes looking at the new girl but looking far away, back into some painful memory.  "You're my friend now, too, and you deserve to know."

The girl swallowed—instantly solemn—the oppressive cloud of some horrible secret weighing so heavily on her heart that she thought she might burst.  She had not meant to force anything personal out of her new friends.  She wasn't nosy that way.

In any case, the others at the table took their places of knowing and respectful silence, each avoiding eye contact, and the clamor of the cafeteria continued as Yugi began his story.

"It rained that day…"

~~~

Yugi walked home from school after the Honor Society meeting.  It was the last time he walked home from school in a very long while.  It was a perfectly normal day.  It was the last day of his life.  It rained that day.

Yugi took the shortcut home like he'd been told not to do so many times before.  It was the last time he took the shortcut ever again.  He didn't care back then.  He hadn't followed those rules since his mother died in a car accident the previous winter.  Like I said, he didn't care.

There was a man behind the empty grocery store, which had gone under the same winter that Yugi's mom died.  So it goes.  There was a man walking along behind the empty grocery store.  Yugi didn't care.

When Yugi didn't come home at five, his grandfather was worried.  When he wasn't home at six, Yami began to worry.  When the sun dropped behind seven o'clock, Yami left the shop and Solomon and jogged back and forth from the school to the shop several times in the rain.  When he didn't see Yugi there, he panicked.  He ran through the rain-slicked streets calling Yugi's name.  Then he started screaming it.

He felt no return through the mental bond they shared.  He sensed no bright glimmering in the dark places of his mind.  Yugi wasn't answering, and Yami was afraid.

The sky turned eight o'clock black, and with none of Yugi's friends knowing where he was, Yami began running scenarios through his frantic brain.  He began checking every arcade, every usual hangout place he could think of.  Then he tried the shortcuts he remembered Yugi taking—from the arcades, from the hangout spots, from the theatre, from school.

They say 'it'll be in the last place you look.'  That doesn't make any sense.  Of course, once you've found what you're looking for, you'll stop looking.  Which was exactly what Yami did.  He turned the corner behind the empty grocery store, and he stopped.  Then he cried.


	2. blue crayon drawings and white walls

This thing will most likely go on and on, and I hope I stay on schedule with my updates.  I'll try.  I assure you it will not be this dark the entire way—it will end well.  Of course, you already know it.  You've already seen Yugi at the end (which was written at the beginning) talking to his friends and laughing at lunch.  You know he will be all right.  The suspense is discovering how he gets there.  This thing happened to someone I know.  Not all of it, of course, but some.  This stuff is real.  And it doesn't always end well.  Remember that.

.

.

.

You come to a point in your emotional warfare while staring at the plain white walls of the waiting room when you just go numb.  You prepare yourself for the absolute worst:  he's dead.  As long as you're prepared for the absolute worst, anything else is wondrous news.  Yami had reached this point.  He was beyond tears or words.  He was numb while he waited.

Solomon had cried and cried himself to sleep at Yugi's bedside, and there Yami had left him while he paced the plain white halls and stared past the receptionist's counter where children's drawings were hung—bright beacons of light and hope in this plasma-smelling hell of waiting.

Not long before, it had entered his mind to call Yugi's friends.  That was before he went numb.  He called Joey.  That was as far down the hierarchy of friend's numbers he'd somehow managed to retain in memory before his voice cracked on the phone and he couldn't go on.

Again he found himself waiting—this time not just for Yugi to wake from his coma, but also for the gang to arrive and in turn themselves hear the diagnosis.  The waiting made Yami numb.  He couldn't tell how long he'd been waiting—only that it had been long enough to drive him to his limit.  Loose shapes of 'mother' and 'father' were still smiling out from behind the receptionists' counter with their bright blue crayon edges at Yami when he closed his eyes.  'Mother' and 'father' were happy.  Their only precious Yugi did not lie comatose in the next room.  Yami hated 'mother' and 'father'.

Joey was the first to arrive.  With him came Serenity, and she was visibly distressed.  Yami regarded them with tired eyes.  He muttered an empty, "Thank you for coming," before Joey recognized how distraught he was and went in search of something to drink.  Five minutes saw him back with several bottled waters.

"Uuhm," Yami tried to begin, drawing it out on a breath like a sob, but he was cut off by a cold bottle of water in his hand.

"It's okay," Joey said.  "Save your energy for the others.  They'll be here soon."

They came as he predicted, one filing in shortly after the other—Tristan, Tea, Bakura—but Yami didn't notice them because he'd begun pacing again.

Yami was numb.

Joey had to walk to him and touch his arm to get his attention.  'Mother' and 'father' were leering and the walls were so white and plain and Yami drug his feet to address the small group of friends.  He was preparing himself for the worst, in the same way as the teenagers must have been preparing themselves for the worst as well.

"Thank you for coming," Yami repeated automatically.  He swallowed hard and continued, "When Yugi failed to return home from school today, I went in search of him."  He faltered, trying to make eye contact with his hikari's closest friends.  He couldn't.  It hurt.  "I found him," he said, "behind the abandoned grocery store.  He was bleeding—"

He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, trying hard to form his thoughts into coherent words.  They needed facts.  So did he.  "The doctors…said he suffered a blow to the head.  He has a concussion.  He slipped into a coma."  Nausea spun threateningly in his stomach, though there was nothing left there to heave into the hospital's plasma-smelling chinawhite. 

"The doctors," he went on, "f—found semen…"  His eyes slammed shut.  His breath came shallowly. His world swam and spun.  The images swam and spun in his mind's eye.  Yugi curled lifeless in a puddle of rain, his blood pinking the water.  Yami wanted to be sick.  "A man…I don't know.  A man," he forced out, thankful his eyes were closed, thankful he did not have to look at the shock and terror on the faces of Yugi's friends, "raped Yugi…first using himself, then a knife."

Tea started crying.

Bakura's hand had shot to his mouth.

Joey was absolutely speechless.

"They are not sure," he slurred through the numbness and the nausea, feeling his knees might give out at any second, "when he might wake up.  And if he does, they say…they say there is a possibility that he will be partially mentally retarded."

Tristan put his head in his hands.

Serenity had started crying, too.  Joey had no comforting words for her.

Joey was also numb.

"Oh God," Bakura whispered against his hand, and Yami felt the reality strike brutally again like it was the first time the doctor had told him, and he turned to stumble away someplace to sit down and recover himself—away someplace where he wanted to die.

Joey shot to his feet to help him, but he couldn't do much because Yami was already forcing himself against a plain white wall and sliding heavily down, down, until he hit the floor and he buried his face in his hands but he didn't cry, he couldn't cry, he had no tears left for his only precious Yugi lying comatose with tubes in his nose and shoved down his throat and an IV needle in his arm and a catheter needle in his urethra and a little machine beside him beeping, beeping out his heartbeats that were forcibly being taken from him as he lay there in a flimsy hospital gown with his grandfather asleep with head resting on crossed arms on the bed.  The tear tracks had dried but were still visible.  On both of their faces.

Yami wanted to die.

Yami started to scream.  He'd cried himself dry so he would scream himself hoarse.  It would have to do.  He hugged his knees in the hall and clenched his teeth and yelled a dozen curses and oaths in a handful of dark, forsaken languages.  Of all things, this.  Of all victims, his own hikari.  He had failed his precious perfect Yugi.  He had failed in protecting his charge.  He failed the one creature he kept on living for.  He cursed the man, he cursed the doctors, he cursed the damn plain white walls and the heartless smiles of 'mother' and 'father' and above all, he cursed himself.

Yami wanted to die.

He'd failed the only thing he'd ever loved.

Joey was on the floor also at this point, and he wrapped his arms around Yami's shoulders in a loose hug.   He didn't care what it looked like on the outside.  He didn't care what the alarmed nurses thought when they tiptoed an arc around them in avoidance.  Screw whatever they thought.  His best friend was in a coma.  He didn't care what comfort looked like from the outside.

It was far past ten.  Far past visiting hours.  The group in the waiting room talked quietly to themselves.  Talked about what had happened, talked about their friend.  Talked about nothing.  They didn't want to talk about it.  But they could do nothing else.  No one was allowed to go in and see him, but no one could quite bring himself to leave.

The hospital only allowed family in the room—Solomon Mutou was in there now, he didn't even know the teenagers had come.  The hospital thought Yami was family, too.  It was the only reason Yami had been able to see Yugi since he'd arrived in the ambulance alongside the gurney, the little bed with wheels where the emergency response team crowded and prodded and stuck needles into Yugi's perfect skin, they cut his shirt, checked for wounds—where was all that blood coming from, those pools, those dark stains on his pants—they wanted to know, but Yami knew—he had seen the blue jean material bunched around hips and blood leaking out from hidden wounds, and he wasn't allowed on the ambulance, but he would have none of it, he would come along—he would be there the whole way, damn it, and no nurse in scrubs would tell him otherwise. 

He was there the whole time, watching their cautious, searching hands on his aibou, hearing their medical gibberish and the wail of the siren warning other cars to _stay away_, and he sat there, crowded, wanting to scream at those paramedics with their hands in latex gloves touching Yugi—no one touched Yugi—NO ONE—but it couldn't be helped and Yami had already failed with some man behind the grocery store and Yami could only imagine how frightened Yugi must have been with some man's hands on him, some man hurting him, all the blood—Yami did not know why there was so much blood and he wanted to scream at the man and the paramedics but he couldn't find his voice.

It was after ten anyway.

Yami didn't want to think about it.

"Hey."  It was Joey.  They still were sitting on the floor against the plain white wall.  They had been there an hour.  They didn't care.  Yami blinked slowly, staring at the cheap white wallpaper directly across from him.  That's all the reply he could manage.  "It's late, and there's not a lot we can do right now.  I'm gonna send my sis home, okay?"

"You don't have to stay, Joe."  Something had broken in his dry voice.

Joey sighed, hugging his knees tighter to himself.  "No," he said.  "I don't."  He smiled weakly.  "But I'm going to—maybe just a couple hours."

Yami thanked him and watched him haul himself to his feet and walk over to ask if Tristan would kindly escort his sister home.  Tristan said OK, he would, and Tea said she was getting tired and asked if it wouldn't be too much for Tristan to walk her home too, please. 

While they spoke, Bakura crossed the waiting room to where Yami sat numb and motionless and the British boy knelt gently and, with a hand on Yami's shoulder, spoke the most profoundly comforting words anyone could have offered him:  "He's a fighter."  And though Yami said nothing, the tears in his eyes were enough of acknowledgment and Bakura gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and left with the others.

Solomon left the room once.  Only once.  The boys down the hall in the waiting room snapped to attention, but saw him only rub his sore neck and shuffle away to find a restroom.  Several minutes later, he returned and shuffled back into the room, closing the door softly behind him as he went.

"You should go in there again," Joey said.  "You haven't gone in there in hours—not once while I've been here."

Yami picked at the arm of the chair he was sitting in.  The cloth was rough.  It smelled like too much heat on a summer day.  Yami didn't like it.  "Nothing will have changed…even if I go in the room again," he replied absently.  "And I couldn't leave you after you've been so kind in staying."

Joey nudged him with a playful fist.  "Aw, I didn't hang around so you could keep me company.  Go back in there.  I'll be fine."

Yami considered the suggestion for a moment, and shook his head slowly.  "I can't," he whispered.  "See him like that—tubes and needles…all over him…I can't bear it."

"Yeah," Joey said, running a hand through his hair.  "But I know it would be good for him…to know you're in the room…to hear your voice.  And it would be good for you, too."  He paused, rubbing his jaw.  "I can only imagine how painful it must be for you to look at him," he went on, "but he needs you…even if he's not awake to tell you so."

Yami swallowed hard and blinked, exhaustion wearing suddenly and very heavily in his chest.  "I know in my heart that you must be right," he whispered hoarsely.  "Gods forgive me, how could I have let this happen?"

Joey sighed deeply and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.  "You had no way of knowing this was gonna happen.  You can't prevent every single bad thing that might come into Yugi's life," he reminded the other man gently.  "This is just one of those things that we all will have to learn from and then go on with our lives.  It's scary and painful—and we'd like to say it's not fair, but it's life.  Life's never fair."

They slipped at once into a comfortable silence, Yami absorbing his friend's advice with weary submission.  He simply had no words to for rebuttal or objection.  All his emotions had been spent—poured fourth from his being in so many sobs and curses that his voice had become dry and ragged from abuse.  He had nothing left to say.  He'd never worn his heart so openly on his sleeve in his entire long and disturbed existence.

"That's very true," he said at last.  "Thank you."  And then he stood and turned and without further explanation moved off slowly in the direction of Yugi's room where he found that Solomon had fallen asleep awkwardly in a chair by the bedside.  Wordlessly, he gathered the old man and assured him that things would be fine and he escorted him back to the waiting room and delivered him into the hands of Joey, who opted to call a taxi that would take he and the elderly man back to the Mutou residence for the night. 

Solomon kept tiredly insisting that he would return early in the morning, and Yami knew that the best thing for him was a few hours of undisturbed rest in his own bed, though he was secretly skeptical of how well he himself would sleep.

Morning light was muted as it came through the blinds of the solitary window.  Distantly, Yami could hear the hospital workers bustling about their duties and the cars outside in the streets and the steady beep, beeping of the little machine that monitored Yugi's heart.  Yami heard them all, but he was slow to push away the warm haze of sleep as he sat hunched with head resting at an angle on his arms on the edge of the bed.

His neck was stiff.  The workers bustled beyond the haze.  The beep, beeping faltered.  Yugi groaned softly on an exhale.  Yami's eyes shot open, immediately taking in his hikari's faint stirring—the turning of his head away from the muted sunlight, the fluttering of his eyelids over soft amethyst irises.

Yami straightened.  "Yugi?"

The boy sighed, his eyes half-open and regarding Yami with groggy recognition.  His brow tensed, his hands instinctively reaching for the tubes in his nose.

Yami knew nothing about medicine, but he'd watched these various contraptions keep his aibou alive for the last twelve hours so he assumed whatever they were either needed to stay there, or be taken out by someone who at least knew what they were.  "No," he whispered to Yugi, trying to hold his hands down.  "Hello there," he yelled at the door.  "A nurse—anyone!  I need help!"

Yugi was obviously frightened and struggling against Yami's intentions—what were all these tubes, these needles, he wanted to know.  He wanted to know why they were there and more importantly, he wanted them to go away.  He sobbed as he struggled, tears loosing from his tired eyes and streaming down his face.

"Shh," Yami soothed, trying not to hold the boy's wrists too tightly.  "Yugi—it's going to be all right.  I'm here with you."  His stern and loyal gaze held Yugi's own and, after a moment, the boy settled down, still very much alarmed and breathing raggedly.

A nurse came in the door suddenly and bolted for the boy, hastily working to remove the various offensive tubes and monitors and such—but Yugi would have none of it.  The nurse frightened him, and he struggled hard against her.  Yami tried to be of comfort, but at that instant, a male nurse had also come into the room, and he promptly began to pry Yami away.

"No," Yami objected, his mind reeling and confused from all the sudden commotion.  "I'm staying."

"Sir, you have to wait outside," this new nurse said, pulling Yami away—it was when Yami realized Yugi had grabbed his hand in a moment of fear and distress—the smaller hand slipped from his own with feeble resistance.  The boy sobbed again, and Yami found himself in that same damn hall as before, staring at a door that had been closed in his face.


	3. that my path may be determined

I don't know why I care anymore.  I don't know why I write these pointless things.  I don't want to write them.  I do not pretend not to be ignorant.  I'm sorry I don't know many things.  I don't pretend to know many things.  I have known something of suffering—but it is American suffering.  It is rejection and living in a single-parent home and trying to understand my homosexual father and balancing my work and social lives and pouring out my varied emotions into my writing, which none of my family ever reads.  I feel so incredibly alone.  But it is American loneliness.  It is spoiled loneliness.  My life could be so much worse.  I could be impoverished.  I could be dying of starvation or exposure.  Or pediatric AIDS.  But no, I whine because I'm lonely.  

I'm sorry I'm so ignorant.

~~~

Yami was lightheaded.  He'd not eaten anything in nearly a day.  He'd had a few hours of shallow sleep, and now he was pushing himself again—talking with Solomon on the phone, arguing with doctors who wanted to keep Yugi in the hospital another night.  Yami hadn't been in the boy's room since he'd woken up—all these damn doctors wanting to talk to him and have him fill out paperwork, even after Yami repeatedly told them that he wasn't Yugi's father and Solomon took care of those sorts of things and no, he had no idea what Yugi's Social Security number was.

Yami was lightheaded, and he was worried—his hikari had seemed so afraid and he wanted to go back into that room and talk with him.  Finally, he got past the last doctor or official or nurse or whoever the hell it was who wanted Yami to sign some waiver and allow the hospital to keep Yugi overnight.  Finally Yami was able to evade the questions and the naggings, and he immediately found his way back into the hospital room where he'd left his charge.

—Only…his charge was gone.  No Yugi, no nurses or doctors, and no chart at the foot of the bed with "Mutou, Yugi" and the patient information and diagnosis.  Yugi was gone.

Yami was livid.

He didn't calm down until a nurse explained to him that the boy's condition had changed from critical to stabile, and that he'd been moved to the second floor.  Furious, Yami exclaimed that he should have been informed, at which time the nurse admitted that she'd tried to tell him, but had been unable to get past his forceful declarations of, "I'm not his father!"

Yami fell silent—he didn't care anymore.  As long as Yugi was still okay, he didn't care that he'd been moved or that these incompetent workers failed in alerting him or that some unseen authorities felt it imperative to keep Yugi overnight again or any of the sort.  Yami didn't care.  He just wanted to get Yugi out of this place and take him home and try to fix what had happened to him the previous evening.  He had already failed the boy.  He just wanted to take him home now.  But visiting would have to do.

Brokenly, he inquired after the room number where the young Mutou could be found and he climbed a flight of stairs—he didn't trust the elevator—and made his way to the designated room.  If he could just see Yugi again—maybe things would start looking up.  He just had to see his aibou.

He rapped his knuckles on the door with a weary motion and, receiving no reply, let himself in.  Curled on the bed he saw Yugi—on his side and facing the window.  Yami spied the telltale curve of lashes blink high on the boy's cheek.  He was awake.  Yami wondered if he'd been awake and alone this whole time.

Careful not to startle his hikari, Yami strode into the small room and approached the bed.  Yugi took no notice of him—probably thought he was another nameless doctor—until Yami uttered his name softly.

"Yugi?"

With hesitation, the boy craned his head around to look at his visitor and a strange sense of suppressed recognition came into his features.  Yami found something alarming in that expression, so he took a step forward and tried again.

"Yugi?  Say something."

The boy was silent for a moment, his mind searching for words behind his wandering eyes.  His voice was small when he said at last, "Hi."

Yami's heart stopped.  There was a kind of animal abandonment in the boy's tone.  Though Yami couldn't explain it, he knew deep down in the more extrasensory parts of his being:  "You don't remember me."

Yugi swallowed hard, his mind grasping desperately for more words, his eyes darting now with fear and distress, tears revealing their sad glint in those lavender depths.  "I'm sorry," he said, the syllables slurred and in a slightly higher pitch than Yami was used to hearing.  The boy blinked slowly and asked, his simple and childlike diction striking Yami to the core, "Are you my daddy?"

~~~

"He's awake?  Oh god, he's awake.  My grandson—"

Yami held his hands up in an effort to quiet the old man, who stood before him now with tears in his eyes.  "Solomon, you must listen—Yugi, he…he doesn't remember—"

"That's fine, bless his heart, I wouldn't want him to remember what happened."

"I fear you do not fully understand," Yami went on, taking the old man's shoulder firmly.  "Yugi doesn't remember anything."

Solomon was at a loss, his large wet eyes blinking at the younger man.

"The doctors call it amnesia," Yami continued gently.  "They say it resulted from the blow dealt to his head…they're not sure whether he'll regain his memories."

The elderly Mutou collected himself with dignified submission.  "That's okay," he said very softly, nodding in a small gesture.  "My sweet boy…he's okay.  It doesn't matter."  He wiped his eyes.  "What…what did he say to you?"

Yami sighed.  "Very little.  He admitted that he didn't remember who I am, and…and he asked me if I am his father."

Mr. Mutou looked surprised.  "He said that?"

Yami focused on some distant point and replied at last, "In almost those words, yes."

"—What did you tell him?"

The younger man glanced away.  "I said nothing.  I couldn't…I felt the issue needed certain delicacy in attending to.  There's a psychologist who works through the hospital—he has most of his experience in special victims…I scheduled an appointment, and he should be coming to speak with me very shortly."

"That so?"  Solomon shook his head incredulously.  "Well, it seems to me that you've got this all under control."  He flashed Yami a weary grin.  "Thank you.  If you don't mind, I'd like to stay with Yugi…until you get things sorted out."

"Of course, Solomon.  Do not by any means allow me to keep you from him.  I'm not yet sure how to handle the situation, but you should feel free to go in and stay with him—he is your grandson, after all."

"Oh, I've been so worried for him," the older man agreed.  "Poor boy.  I'm just glad he's awake so soon."

~~~

The psychologist—Kei, his name was—turned out to be an eager, balding man, mid-thirties, who took his work very seriously and the stress of this was apparent in his eyes.  But he had a good heart and a genuine concern for the people he analyzed.  

He was not a psychiatrist in the sense that he did not actually speak with the patients about their problems and coach them through their metaphysical struggles.  Kei was a psychologist, a student of the human mind, someone who dissected psyches and strived with everything in his being to understand the emotional warfare of victims of mental, physical, and sexual abuse.  He understood very well.

He'd found Yami in the hall and, after an abbreviated introduction, jumped right into discussion of Yugi's complex state.  "Tell me again," he was saying, "where the boy's head injury is located?"

"Above the right temple," Yami recited, recalling perfectly well the image he'd shored up through long hours of staring at his sleeping hikari the night before and very early that morning.

"And the impact bruised a blood vessel in the brain, creating a pool of blood between the tissue and the skull—a concussion.  Any closer to the temple could have very possibly damaged his sight," Kei explained.

"So only his brain is damaged," Yami pointed out with the depressing sense of optimism that he'd learned quickly over the last day.

"It could have been much worse," the psychologist reminded him.  "I'm thrilled that he's even awake.  Obviously, amnesia is a result of his injury.  His motor functions have been affected—he slurred, you said."

"Yes."

Kei sighed.  "There will most likely arise other difficulties—you'll come to recognize them soon, and I'd like to hear about them when you do.  But in the meantime…he's going to need a lot of special attention throughout his recovery."

"I understand that."

"—And you mentioned that he asked if you're his father?"

"Yes, he did."

The doctor was studying him from behind round eyeglasses.  "And how did you respond?"

Yami hesitated under inspection.  "I did not," he admitted at length.  "It's why I sought your advice.  I am not sure how to proceed."

Kei nodded, his calculating gaze losing focus for a moment.  "An injury affecting memory…motor functions…I have to wonder," he said, mostly to himself, "if these symptoms are more psychosomatic than medical fact."

Yami glared at the insinuation he sensed.  "You think he's lying?"

"Not at all, forgive me," Kei corrected himself.  "I mean to say that…oftentimes, especially in the case of a younger, preadolescent individual…when faced with such brutal circumstances as this, he or she will mentally shut down.  In the cases of young children, they tend to needlessly hold onto their childhoods well into their teens, as a way of coping with the guilt and the pain they feel."

Kei sighed at Yami's bewildered expression, and shifted his weight on his feet and continued.  "What I'm suggesting—and certainly what I'm hearing so far—is a young male, feeling vulnerable and weak after a violent rape, reverts back to a time in his life that…maybe he was vulnerable and weak—his childhood.  I know it's not entirely mental—it was justifiably triggered by his injuries—but it is a condition readily supported by the mental and emotional state he's now in."

"So," Yami asked, "it's not all physical?"

"That's what I believe," Kei agreed.  "The concussion, the amnesia, the speech impediment—they all certainly could be physically induced because of the impact on the brain, but it's entirely plausible that they can be traced to the mental cacophony going on in his psyche right now as well."

Yami blinked.  "I only begin to grasp this," he said.  "But I am obliged to trust your professional opinion," he yielded.  "What do I do?"

Key chewed his lip.  "He asked you if you were his father…obviously he's reverted to a time in his life, or an age, when he felt close to his father.  He feels insecure now, so naturally he would seek comfort in that closeness he experienced once—You're not his father, are you?"

"No."

"Brother?"

Yami set his jaw.  He didn't like the personal questions.  "No," he said.

"What relation do you have to him, Mr. Yami?"

Yami blinked.  "I'm a close friend."

Kei raised an eyebrow.  "Are you in any way romantically involved with him, because if you are, I'm afraid you can't—"

"—How dare you suggest anything of the sort," Yami cut him off, his eyes narrowing in fury and mistrust, his stern voice punctuating the air with swift force.  "I would never be presumptuous enough as to take advantage of the boy's trust.  He and I share bond that I could never conceive of explaining to you, and therefore I will not attempt to—do not ask me again."

Stunned, Kei stared at him and swallowed.  "Fair enough.  Forgive me."  He paused, and with his silence assured the other man that not another word would be interjected on the subject.  "All I'm trying to say is that, no matter your true relation, he asked you to be his father.  Obviously, he feels attached to you.  He wants to cling to his father in this time of uncertainty, and he decided to cling to you.  It's going to require a great deal of work, but he wants you to do it, and now you have to decide if you're willing to be there for him."

Yami was lost.

"If you decide to take it upon yourself to help him through this," Kei continued, "you'll have to be there every step of the way.  You can't change your mind somewhere down the road.  He needs unwavering support right now.  If you're not up to the task, don't hurt him by going in half-hearted, do you understand?"

Yami's brow tensed.  "I would do anything for him.  I wasn't there to protect him when he needed me the most…I am bound to be with him now.  I would walk into hell for that boy, if he asked."

Kei nodded.  "Good."

~~~

Yami had won the first battle of many that he sensed he would encounter in the time to come—he had defeated the monster of this place that had tried to swallow him whole—he won against the nurses and doctors and stubborn receptionists, all longing to feed the beast that was the hospital, lest it consume them instead.  They had tried, but Yami had succeeded them all.

He and Solomon would be able to take Yugi home that night.

Yami had not yet had a chance to see Yugi since before his discussion with the hospital's psychologist.  He hadn't yet summoned words he might use.  It was afternoon.  Twenty-four hours before, he never would have dreamed of having to go through all of this.  Life can be so odd.  But Yugi would sleep in his own bed that night, and it was one of the very few comforts Yami found.

_Stop stalling._

_Go in and see him._

_Swallow your fear, you coward—it's Yugi.  Even though your conscience is screaming LIAR, go in and see him and tell him what he wants to hear.  Just do it for him._

Yami watched with a detached sense of nervous longing his hand upon the doorknob, turning slowly, the longest rotation of his life, the metallic vitals in there clinking, opening their secrets to his touch, a dull creaking hinge and the door was open.  Mr. Mutou was in there, sitting on a chair by the bedside, his genial smile holding Yugi's attention until that point, when the door opened and the newcomer stood there dumbstruck, watching them.

The look on the young boy's face showed that he recognized who Yami was, his brows arched high and lips parted and his amethyst eyes still sparkling though everything hurt inside.

Yami found it difficult to breath.  He blinked, and a tear fell to his cheek.  Failing any attempt at subtle, he asked, "What do you want?"

Yugi gazed at him—he was smarter than he looked—he understood this game.  He swallowed hard on the words that wouldn't come, carefully structuring the response in his shaken brain, aware that his response was crucial.  "I want someone to take care of me," he replied honestly, shaping the sounds with difficulty in a mouth that seemed to work slower than his mind.  "Daddy," he asked, big globs of wetness welling in his eyes, "will you stay for good this time?  Will you take care of me?"

Yami's heart was moved.  His gaze held Solomon's for a brief second.  _This is it._  He took five steps into the room and to Yugi's bedside, where he faltered and placed a hand on Yugi's arm, unsure of what else to do and, though a pending sob constricted his throat, whispered, "Of course," at which Yugi grinned.  "I will not leave you…son."


	4. father's resolution

I was pleasantly surprised to find that people are reading this story.  I can only hope as an author that my work is received and understood by the people I am trying to reach.  Everything I've written has crashed and burned.  I've gotten used to the feeling of averaging two reviews per chapter.  When did it become all about the reviews, anyway?  Why can't I just focus on making myself a better writer?  Why does the popularity contest always distract me?  I will not write yaoi to get reviews.  I will not write slash to get reviews.  I will not write pornography to get reviews.  This is not about pornography.  This is not about reviews.

It's about life.

~~~

The taxi drive home felt like hours.  The cold, wet weather of winter cast the city in blue and yellow lights flickered on dutifully in this early evening.  Yugi was plastered to the window, taking everything in anew, his eyes darting with the movement of the sunset behind the trees.

Yami stared at him, lost in thought, unsure of how to think or what to do or say.  He felt so out of place—he'd never been a father—and hadn't the faintest clue of how to act now that he was.  He still had it in his head that going along with the "daddy" illusion was just an elaborate deception, and Yami absolutely detested the possibility that he was lying to his hikari.

Solomon asked the taxi driver to stop at a grocery store that happened to be on the way back to the house.  He dashed inside for some reason Yami didn't know—he didn't know anything aside from the fact that he'd been left alone with Yugi, left alone in the car with this boy who for some strange reason he felt he didn't know anymore—this boy wearing clothes donated to the hospital (his short had been cut and his pants held stains and memories Solomon didn't care to tend to), wearing a shirt two sizes too large for him with a faded ad on the front for a laser eye surgeon no one ever heard of—this boy staring raptly out the window though everything hurt and Yami could smell the blood on him.  He was still bleeding.

Yugi shifted in his seat and grimaced, hugging himself tightly and leaning against the doorframe.  Yami could imagine how tired he was—he'd lost so much blood, the doctors said, and Yami watched him and felt pity for him and was moved to comfort him or say something—anything—but he didn't know what to say or to do and he'd never been a father before and he felt terrible for his neglect now.  But he stayed quiet and he said nothing and Yugi said nothing and after a moment, Solomon returned and the driver took them home.

"Okay, my boy, we're here," Solomon said to Yugi as soon as they were in the door.  "Now you're going to get a bath and something to eat and then it's bedtime, okay?"

The boy grinned wearily—he still seemed rather hesitant.  He remembered Solomon like instinct, and in a sense he remembered them both—deep in his bones.  He knew they were a part of him and had been for a substantial amount of time, just like the house and the walls.  Everything seemed to be encrypted into his very being, but the feel of it had changed.  It had become harder to remember.  He didn't know his last name, and when he tried to thing of it, a haze shrouded the memories—a fog thick as soup—and the words stuck in his mouth just like the memories stuck in his brain—the right side of his brain, above the temple where the blood pounded and throbbed and ached.

"Grampa," he said, though he wasn't sure why, and the sob stuck in his throat, his breath short, the tag of the too big shirt scratching his neck.

Solomon saw in his eyes how honestly lost he was, standing there, fiddling with the hem of the t-shirt, looking smaller than he'd ever been before.  "It's okay," he replied, laying a hand on Yugi's shoulder.  "I understand."

~~~

There were thousands and thousands of little bubbles—he couldn't count them all—pure and clean and sweet-smelling bubbles swimming along the top of his wonderfully warm bath water.  The hands on him, washing him, were gentle and loving.  They were his grandfather's hands, scrubbing him faithfully with all that soapy water.

"You haven't bathed in several days," Solomon was saying, "and I can't with a clear conscience put you to bed when you haven't bathed in several days."

Yugi stared at him with thoughtful eyes, completely unashamed in his nakedness or the blood in the water.  The hands were gentle, and they were putting him to sleep.  He blinked heavily.

"Are you tired," the old man asked.

"Uh-huh," he mumbled, fighting a yawn.

"I can imagine," Solomon mused.  "Yami?"

The formerly addressed straightened obediently.  He hadn't known what to do with himself, so he'd faded into the background, so to speak, becoming one with the counter and sink and mirror, not so much embarrassed to see his hikari naked as he was pained.  It was hard to look at the boy—bruised and cut and bleeding.

"Yami," Solomon continued, "Can you go find a pair of his pajamas?"

Relieved of his silent post at last, he complied promptly, returning to the room with warm flannel pajama pants and a matching blue button-up nightshirt.

"Thank you, my boy," Mr. Mutou said.  Then, to his grandson, "Time to wash your hair."  The procedure was another instinct—lie down in the tub so that grandpa can easily get to your hair.  "Yami, can you do me another favor?"

"As you wish."

"Can you reach the shampoo," he asked, beginning to wet the boy's hair.  When Yami had retrieved the item, Solomon said, "Now, put some in your hand—no, more than that—just like if you were washing your own hair."

"And now," Yami asked.

"Rub your hands together." 

And he did.

"Okay," Solomon continued, "come here.  Yes, just kneel here."

Yami hesitated.

"Come on—don't be shy.  Put your hands in the water just like mine."

They switched places.

"What," Yami protested, unsure of himself, "what do I do?"

"Put your hands in his hair," Solomon instructed, reaching under the sink for a towel.  "Massage the scalp with your fingertips—and careful of the temple, I know it must sting."

Yami obeyed, hesitant, haltingly, running his fingers through hair and water, methodically scratching scalp with his nails.  His eyes suddenly found Yugi's and they held gazes for several long minutes, his hikari looking up at him with unadulterated trust and admiration, and Yami himself staring back intently, the notion awkwardly striking him that he was holding Yugi's head in his hands.  He was holding Yugi's trust in his hands.

In the times of kings and slaves, in parched deserts, water was scarce.  Hair was regularly perfumed and not washed.  Washing was reserved for the most decadent of events, and performed only by the highest attendants of kings and their royal families.

—And here he was now, this former pharaoh, washing the hair of a young boy—a young boy lying ear-deep in bath water, his heavy lids sliding slowly over amethyst irises.

Yami faltered.

He'd never felt more connected to a human being than now, sharing tired eye contact, cradling Yugi's head in his hands, the soft hair moving under the water like silk between his fingers.  

It was getting difficult to breathe, and the flopped image of Yugi looking up from the tub had become blurred.  Yami blinked but it didn't help.

Solomon's hand on his arm.

It's okay.

I understand.

Yami sniffed—once—and finished his task and they rinsed Yugi's hair and Solomon was allowed to dry him with the towel and take the blow dryer to his hair.  His clothes were slipped on—including a maxi pad in the seat of his underpants.

Yami didn't think he'd ever get used to that part—he assumed the boy would have to wear them until he stopped bleeding.  Yami hated it—he hated the whole thing—but Yugi didn't complain about how uncomfortable it was, although that was obvious in his pseudo grin.  He only complied with his grandfather's request of, "Brush your teeth," since they ate before the bath.  And so—fed, cleaned, and dried, Yugi stumbled off to bed.

~~~

"Are you all right?"

Yami blinked, drawn from his reverie.  "Yes," he replied, "only preoccupied."

"I could see that much," Solomon noted.  "Do you want to talk?"

Yami shrugged.  "There is nothing…"

The elder Mutou allowed a pause for the other man's pride.  "You know," he said, "it's okay if there is something."

After a moment, Yami buried his face in his hands.  "I can't…place it—this emotion."  He pasued, gathering words he knew would be inadequate.  "I feel so…angry…at everything."

"You're angry," Mr. Mutou repeated, his tone gentle but prodding.

Yami ran his hands through his hair.  "I feel such strong…reservations—"  He stopped himself, sighed, looked up at Mr. Mutou once more, his frustration apparent.  "I cannot even find words to describe it.  I am furious.  Why," he asked, an edge to his voice now, "why would anyone do such a thing?  Why did Yugi have to take that godforsaken shortcut?  Why did I not set out to look for him earlier?  Why—why did any of this have to happen?  What wrong did he ever do?  Gods!  I do not begin to understand why such an innocent creature should have to bear something so awful!"

"—I know.  It makes me angry, too," Solomon admitted, hoping his quieter tone would help to sooth Yami's distress.  "But it's not right to place the blame on anyone—not even ourselves."  He lowered his voice.  "I'm not sure how this will end.  I don't have the answers.  I have no idea what's in store for us.   All I know is that my Yugi is still alive.  I'll take everything else as it comes to me—it can only get better from here on out."

Yami straightened tiredly where he sat on the couch.  "I wish I possessed your optimism," he yielded flatly.

"Oh, you needn't worry about a thing," Solomon said, grinning hopefully.  "Yugi really looks up to you.  Being his father will be a challenge, but it will be so rewarding.  I promise you."

Yami considered his words carefully.  "Solomon," he whispered at last, "I am not strong."

Meaning to say he was not strong enough to be Yugi's father.  He was not strong enough to handle a mentally impaired teenager.  He was not strong enough to be protective and loving and mad all at once.  He was not mad enough to father an abused and wounded child.

Meaning to say he was afraid.

Solomon sighed.  "I trust you," he said.  "And I think you'll end up surprising yourself."

~~~

Sleeping was shallow and riddled with doubts and troubled shallow dreams.  Sleeping was the time that the brain reconciled accounts and added up facts and stored away questions and fears for the next day of waking.  Sleeping was no comfort to Yami, though he was impossibly weary from the last days' events.  Sleeping brought him restlessness and unease.

Sleeping was shattered when Yami sensed a presence in his room—there in his doorway stood a small silhouette dark against the pitch black of the house but somehow still visible.  "Daddy," it said.  It was Yugi, and for some reason beyond rational explanation, Yami was afraid.

It was not Yugi.  It was a new little boy, this one finding reason to call him Daddy instead of Yami.  Yami did not know this boy.

"What is it," he asked, his inquiry affording him no immediate reply.  

The silhouette came closer.  "Daddy," it said again.  "I had a bad dream."

Yami hesitated, unsure of what this boy wanted.  His eyes had adjusted and he could now just barely make out Yugi in his pajama pants, pillow in hand, bangs damp with perspiration and clinging to his forehead.  He'd shed his shirt some time before.

"I had a bad dream," Yugi repeated, helpless, begging, shivering in his nightmare-induced sweat out here in the cold.  "Can I sleep with you?"

Yami's first impulse was to turn him away.  It wouldn't be proper, he reasoned, to share a bed with his hikari.  But he reminded himself that this boy was only seeking comfort in his father, and that there truly were no indecent connotations about a little boy snuggling away his nighttime fears in the arms of his parents.

The difference was that there was only one parent, and it was Yami.  And Yami was not his parent.

"Daddy?"

Yami sighed deeply and said nothing, scooting over in invitation, which the boy picked up on immediately, climbing awkwardly onto the bed to lay on his side.  Beside him, Yami covered them both with sheet and blanket, and Yugi buried himself happily in Yami's warmth.

The world receded back into its silence and its slumber, and Yami closely watched his hikari, who was facing him, arms tucked in to his chest, hair tousled, breathing steadily.  Yami realized, as he never had before, that Yugi was beautiful.  He usually would not think to notice such things, but here in this moment, he looked at his hikari as if he were any person passing him on the street.  He imagined he was seeing those features for the first time here in this blue cool light pooling in from the window.

He wiped the innate image he had in his head, and took Yugi in for the first time—thick, long lashes and perfectly arched brows.  Heavy lids, small nose, soft lips parted now and revealing a glimpse of straight, white teeth.  Slightly oily skin at this hour, giving him a glow—a dangerous luster—the lines of his neck smooth and disappearing under the blanket pulled up to his bare shoulder.

Maybe this was why.

Maybe that asshole—whoever he was—saw this untouched vision of youth, and was moved or jealous or aroused—whatever he happened to be at that moment—Yami didn't know if it was a crime of passion or a desperate assertion of dominance that creep acted out in Yugi.  Yami didn't know, but either way, it made him furious that anyone—ANYONE—would look at his little hikari that way—this way—stealing an eager glance at his youthful beauty and wanting it all to himself.

It made him furious.  Even to think about it.  It made him furious trying to dissect the nature of the man who did this—his motives, his reasons for acting out so inhumanely, so cruelly, in this sensitive little creature.  It made Yami furious that anyone would do such a thing to a kid—and not just any kid—_his_ kid, his Yugi.

Yugi sighed in his sleep—a ragged sigh—the kind of sigh that came after a good long cry.

He was helpless in his sleep.

He had been helpless in his resistance against an unknown man behind an empty grocery store.

Yami would never take advantage of his helplessness.  He swore to himself that he would never prey upon it.  He would do his best to guide Yugi and to instruct him in love, but he would never be presumptuous enough to pretend that he couldn't do anything by himself.  Yugi was not retarded.  He was just scared.

After several long minutes, Yami put an arm around his son, and he went back to sleep.


	5. toys and tears

I am walking an endless circle. This is going nowhere. I will look back on this five years from now and laugh at my pointless endeavors. As I look back now on the things that were important to me five years ago. I laugh at Mulder and Scully, although they were the two most exciting characters within my writing capacity. The idea is foolish now, but then it was terribly romantic and captivating.

The fanworld of Yu-Gi-Oh is delicate and intrinsic—a giant web of intrigue and possibility. It is this terribly romantic, captivating thing smelling suspiciously of "cult." It is somehow ancient and transient, weathered and ephemeral at once. It is romanticized. And in five years, it will either be a fond memory of nostalgic days of youth, or it will be overdone to the point of irritation.

I was there before the media. I was there before the t-shirts and lunchboxes and shoelaces. I was there before it was something cheap and tangible. I was there when its success was an issue of doubt. I was there before the starving fans with their collector's tin cans full of trading cards.

I was there when it was this romantic idea.

I wish I were there still.

.

.

.

"I called your friends," Solomon was saying. "They were awfully worried about you. I called them last night to tell them you were home from the hospital."

Yugi stared at him wide-eyed where he sat at his French toast breakfast. He said nothing, swallowed a mouthful of bread, peanut butter, and syrup. He said nothing, but Yami glimpsed the curiosity in his features.

"Yes," Yami said, "you have friends."

"What're their names," the boy asked, his eyes dancing.

Yami smiled. "Joey is one of them," he explained. "You two are very close. His sister is Serenity. There is also Tristan, Bakura, and Tea. You and Tea have known each other for years now."

Yugi was giddy. "Daddy," he begged, "can they come over and play?"

"They're at school right now," Solomon interposed. "But afterwards, I invited them to come see you."

"When is afterwards," the boy asked, squirming in his chair.

"In several hours," his grandfather explicated with a chuckle.

"But," Yugi complained, "what'll I do til then?"

"You should be patient," Mr. Mutou instructed him good-naturedly. "You'll see them soon. Besides, you have many games in your room that I know can keep you occupied until they come over."

The boy's eyes found Yami's. "Daddy, will you play with me?"

Yami regarded him fondly for a moment. "As soon as you finish your breakfast," he agreed.

.

Most of the games in Yugi's possession were thinking games, or strategy games, intended for intellectual reason and sharp mental reaction. They were not for little boys. Yugi's disinterest was apparent.

"You know," Solomon remarked, "I think there might be some old toys of yours in boxes up in the attic."

The boy's eyes lit.

"Let's go up and see," the elder Mutou suggested, motioning for his grandson to follow him out the door.

.

Even though Solomon said it wasn't a good idea and Yami mildly rebuked him for not listening to his grandfather, Yugi began hauling himself up the ladder. He was still in a great deal of pain, so he took the rungs very slowly, clinging to them one at a time, moving his feet up left after right until he was that much closer to the top and Solomon's extended hand. Yami was close behind him, shadowing his movements, one hand instinctively guiding the boy by the small of his back.

Finally at the top, Mr. Mutou gently pulled Yugi to his feet and sternly warned him to stay on the beams—otherwise he'd fall through the ceiling. Yami, himself now at the top as well, again questioned the purpose of the trip if it was, after all, so perilous.

"Over there," Solomon exclaimed, pointing to a particular dusty corner of the attic and commencing to hop from one wooden beam to the next in a surprisingly nimble fashion for a man of his age.

Sweating from physical exertion and wrenching pain that he wouldn't let show, Yugi followed suit with excitement, Yami cautiously tagging behind him.

"Yes, these boxes are yours," the old man said, shuffling through a number of haphazardly stacked cardboard boxes. Several had been placed on an old rocking chair.

"What's that," Yugi asked, dashing forward to inspect it. The wood was mahogany and, though a little dusty and weathered, the scrollwork on the armrests was remarkable. The cushion on the seat seemed to be the original, and a little worse for wear. It could stand to be replaced.

"Oh," Solomon sighed, the spark of reminiscence in his eyes, "that belonged to your grandmother. She used to rock you in that thing all the time when you were a baby. After she passed on, I had no use for it, and I managed to hoist it up here."

"It's pretty," Yugi said. "Can I have it in my room? Please, Daddy?"

Yami smiled at him, still amused at the boy's childlike pronunciations. "Ask your grandfather."

Yugi turned his pitiable gaze on Solomon, who gave into his petition of, "Pleeease, grampa?"

"You can have it if you like," Mr. Mutou resolved. "But I'm afraid my back's not what it used to be. I'm not sure how well I'll be able to put it in your room." He decided it best to divert his grandson's attention. "I wonder what's in all these boxes."

"Can I open them," Yugi asked, his interest effectively transferred to the dusty boxes.

"Of course," Solomon agreed, hoisting a box onto the floor for his grandson's inspection.

"Perhaps we should continue downstairs," Yami suggested, wary of the creaking boards under their feet, but Yugi was already busy prying tape off of corners and lifting cardboard folds to reveal a jumbled mess of action figures and Tonka trucks.

"Wow, cool!" Yugi's eyes were bright with wonder as he picked up individual Power Ranger figurines and chunky plastic dinosaurs—and one large Godzilla with a voice box that promised hours of uninterrupted playtime as soon as an AA battery could be replaced. Several more boxes yielded stuffed animals, puzzles, and Lego sets.

Yami had not seen the boy so animated before. It was wonderful to watch him alive with excitement, starving for all the play in the world, in love with being a child in his own little universe where only he and his newfound joy existed.

With great difficulty, Yami managed to bring down five boxes of Yugi's toys before carefully guiding Yugi himself down. He eventually had to take the boy by his underarms and lift him down from where he clung to the ladder, whimpering through clenched teeth.

"We'll not go up there again," Yami resolved, the boy in his arms tense and in pain.

Solomon joined them on the floor, exchanging a look with the older boy. "I'll take this stuff to your room, and then what do you say to lunch?"

.

The afternoon had been spent lazily, Yugi in his own universe, surrounded by toys in a room that had become disturbingly unkempt in a very short time. Yami stayed with him, sitting attentively on the floor and watching his play habits. Yugi was almost unaware of him, acknowledging him only when a rocket ship or T-Rex would crawl its way up the mountainous terrain that happened to be Yami's legs.

Yami would laugh softly, and his boy would stop to regard him, each time in as much rapture as the first, and they would be silent together; staring, knowing, memorizing features the way a gosling and a mother goose might. The sunlight in Yugi's room was orange.

An eagerly awaited knocking at the door of the shop announced that Yugi's friends had arrived. The boy was anxious to run and see them all, but Yami kept him in the living room so that Solomon could meet the group at the door and warn them all of what was and what was not to be said.

"Of course, he doesn't remember what happened, so I'd like you not to ask him about it. I think it might upset him. Keep the conversation light—he has a short attention span. Oh, I know it will be difficult for you to see him this way, but please, Tea, don't cry in front of him. It will make him sad."

"Okay," Tea obeyed, wiping her eyes.

Joey put an encouraging arm around her. "It'll be fine," he affirmed, surprisingly confident.

Solomon led them up the stairs.

"Be polite," Yami was instructing softly on the couch in the living room.

Yugi stared at him. "What's polite," he asked.

"Tell them each your name," Yami continued. "Ask their names in turn. Don't fidget."

"What's fid—"

Yami laid a hand over the boy's hands, which were tugging at the hem of his shirt, just as the others were entering the room.

"Hello there," Joey said.

Yugi gazed at him, suddenly shy, and said nothing.

"Be polite," Yami whispered into his ear.

"Hi," the boy replied hesitantly. "My name's Yugi, what's yours," he recited.

"I'm Joey." He took hold of Serenity. "And this is my sister."

"I'm Serenity," she said, her voice small, unsure of how to speak to her friend.

Yugi stared at her. "You're pretty," he mused, a distant look in his eye.

Serenity blushed. "Thank you," she said timidly.

Tristan stepped forward. "And my name's Tristan Taylor," he chimed.

"Hi."

Next in line, Tea twiddled her thumbs—still sniffling back tears—and said, "I'm Tea. Tea Gardner."

"Hi, Tea."

Bakura was last. He gave his friend a small smile and introduced himself. "My name is Ryou Bakura."

Yugi heard the accent on his voice; recognized his long hair, fair complexion, and soft features. "You're pretty, too," he commented absently, describing a fact mutually known and never mentioned amongst his small group of friends. He had not meant anything implicit by the compliment, and this was apparent, for in the eyes of children, beauty is not a thing bound to age or gender. His was exclusively an observation.

"Yugi," Yami whispered, sternly now, "boys are not 'pretty.' That was an insult. Apologize."

Yugi, crestfallen at this chastisement, dropped his eyes and mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Bakura colored, tucked his hair behind his ear and replied, "It's okay," with an enduring grin. It was not entirely desirable for a young man to be physically attractive in such ways, and it had always been a social obstacle for Bakura.

"I've got to start making dinner," Solomon interjected into what could have become a very uncomfortable silence. "You kids talk all you like, and I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. Please, make yourselves at home."

They seated themselves on the couch, the loveseat, and even the floor, Yugi taking them in one at a time, slowly, calculating, sizing up each of his new friends—a little shaken and at a loss for many words. His gentle gaze settled around the room as he was asked simple questions to which he usually had an answer.

"Do you like your house," Tristan asked.

Yugi smiled. "Uh-huh."

"How old are you, Yugi? I forget sometimes," Bakura said, and for a moment, Yami panicked, until he realized the British teen's motive. How old did Yugi _think_ he was?

"I…" The boy faltered, made up his mind, "I'm six."

"And what's your favorite color?" Bakura covered his intentions quickly.

Yugi glanced around, paused on his father's eyes. "Purple," he murmured. Yami grinned.

Tea laughed lightly. "How was your day?"

"Good," he replied, his hand subconsciously wandering to the tender spot on the side of his head, above the temple, where a bandage was now located. "I got a booboo," he announced.

The others were silent.

"That's too bad," Joey played along. "I see somebody got you a band-aid."

"My Daddy," the boy agreed with a smile. "It's a Pikachu one. It made my booboo feel better."

"I'm glad," Serenity said.

Yugi glanced around again until his focus alighted on Joey. "I have toys," he exclaimed.

"Oh, what kinds?" Joey was good at this.

"All kinds—I have trucks and planes and zoo animals! You wanna see?"

Joey shot to his feet. "I'd _love_ to see, Yuug!"

"Maybe we could play," Yugi suggested, rising from the couch.

"Yeah—hey, come with us, Tristan," Joey demanded, yanking his friend up by the arm.

"O—kay," he replied, unsure of how to react.

"Try not to bore your friends," Yami instructed.

"Nah, don't be silly," Joey objected. "C'mon, Yuug."

The three bounded to Yugi's room, leaving the rest in sudden silence. Tea was losing the fight to suppress her tears, Bakura bit his lip, and Serenity looked from one occupant of the room to another, searching for explanation.

"He's different," Bakura said at last.

Yami sighed, shifting his weight in his seat. "It will take some getting used to," he agreed. "And I am still not aware of how to parent him."

"I think you're doing a marvelous job," Tea commented, her eyes brimming.

"So do I," Serenity said. "I can tell he easily obeys you."

Yami grinned wearily. "I only hope it remains as such. I do not know what to anticipate in raising a child."

"But Solomon will be there to help," Tea reminded him.

They slipped into silence again, evening sun outside the window stretching shadows across the floor. Bakura stirred. "What of his Millennium Puzzle," he inquired.

Yami hesitated, ran a hand through his hair. "Taken," he explained at length.

"I'm sorry," Bakura said.

"There was no real use left in it," Yami continued. "But I know it meant something to him…as it did to me."

After a respectful pause, Serenity observed, "He seems happy."

Yami nodded in agreement. "He is."

.

Joseph had been a wonderful help. He had never felt he'd been particularly good with children, but his little cousins revered him, and the skills he'd learned from babysitting them came into invaluable use now with his friend. He'd sat on the floor with Yugi and played and made the boy laugh. Tristan had joined in eventually, tentatively, cautious of how to act, but Joey made all the pretend very easy for him. Playtime had been good.

Afterwards, dinner had been eaten, and the gang filed into the living room to watch a movie. They picked a mild cartoon—something Disney—and cued it up, confident Yugi would be satisfied with any of those trite fairytales, since this would be, in a sense, his first time to see it. Yami excused himself from their company to go relieve Solomon of dish duty, and Joey followed him into the kitchen several moments later.

"Hey—you okay?"

Yami paused, mid-scrub, and leaned against the sink. His eyes wandered through the warm, soapy water at the partially submerged cups and plates. "I will be," he replied at last.

Joey picked at the edge of the counter. "Things'll be a lot different 'round here, I'm sure," he remarked. "But the worst is over, eh?"

Yami said nothing, clenched tightly the sponge in his hand, water running between his fingers. "I could never," he forced out, "do what you do. You play with him, Joey. You make him laugh."

The blonde thumbed his nose. "Nah," he said. "I play with him. But you?" He shook his head. "You get to be his father. He needs that guidance so much more than a playmate. It's real special—what you're doing for him. You're givin' him a second chance, an' I admire that."

Yami looked him in the eye. "Thank you, Joe. Thank you for everything you do." He glanced away once more. "I only hope I can live up to your expectations."

Joey smiled, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder. "We all believe in you. We're trusting you with our bestest little buddy. He'll be fine."

Yami returned his smile.

Shortly after Joey found his way back to the rest of his friends, Yami finished his tasks in the kitchen and also entered the living room. For a moment he stared at Yugi who, entranced by the movie, sat with wide eyes solemnly glued to the screen.

He glanced to where the boy's attention lay transfixed. There on the television was a large gray elephant—he recognized the animal—and, seeing it chained in a train car with bars over the windows, Yami surmised that it was either a beast of entertainment or labor. It was cradling a smaller elephant in its trunk.

Yami understood. This was a sad moment. The animal was a mother, and she was embracing her young from behind bars. She was singing to it, Yami guessed, the words that swept across the room and to his ears: baby mine. Baby mine, don't you cry. Baby mine, dry your eye.

He looked at Yugi again to find that he was crying. They were silent tears, evoked by this cinematic display of love and affection. Yami was moved. He longed, standing there, watching his boy, to be that kind of parent. A gentle parent. A loving parent.

.

Yami was only half asleep when he sensed the presence right next to his bed. He'd been anticipating another visit from Yugi, and therefore had not fallen into quite as deep a sleep as he might have been enjoying otherwise. The night was wearing on and he distantly grew concerned that his boy would not come, but it was at that moment he sensed the presence beside his bed, and he opened his eyes, instantly alert but unalarmed.

There were Yugi's orbs locked calmly with his own. No words were spoken because no words were necessary. Yami knew what he wanted, and he momentarily tossed aside a corner of the comforter in offering, which the boy accepted gratefully. Wordlessly. He slipped under the covers and he was warm—they were both warm—Yami tenderly cradling him with arms and blankets and silent affection.

Rest your head close to my heart. Never depart, baby of mine.


	6. turning inside out

Now it is important to mention that I do not include details because they are glamorous.  I hate details.  I include details because they are real.  They may be unpleasant, and if you are offended in any way, I suggest you either remain open-minded, accepting the details as they come, or discontinue reading altogether, but I do not apologize.  I do not write any of this to please, and I do not write to disgust.  I write because I am obligated to do so—because I am mad—and because, if I didn't, I would never forgive myself.

.

.

.

"So he's six," Kei repeated, mildly amused.  "That's interesting.  I wouldn't have guessed he'd be so sure about his age."

"Is that not normal?"  Yami tried to keep the urgency from his voice.

"No, no," the other man objected, "it's fine.  It just means that he knows exactly where he is in his life.  It's fascinating—the almost selective nature of it."  There was a pause over the line where the psychologist sighed.  "And he's acting like a six-year-old as well?"

"He's easily distracted," Yami explained, coiling the phone cord around his fingers.  "He spends a lot of his time playing with toys."

"Has he said anything about the incident?"

Yami didn't know when it had come to be called an 'incident.'  He considered it more of an attack.  "No," he replied.  "He's aware that he's in pain—I can see that—but he has not said anything about what happened or how it made him feel."  He hesitated.  "He doesn't remember anything, Kei."

"I understand," the doctor said.  "I was only wondering if he'd mentioned anything to you—perhaps something had come back to him."

"What do you propose I do, should the topic arise?"  Yami's concern was apparent.

"I suppose," Kei mused, leaning back in the chair in his cramped office," if he broaches the subject, he wants to talk about it.  Should he mention something, I advise that you ask him questions—what he may remember—and walk him through whatever emotion that it incites in him.  Never ignore the issue should it come up."

Yami sighed heavily and rubbed his neck.

"Are you beginning to regret your decision," Kei asked suddenly, his voice sounding impossibly removed over the phone line.

"No," Yami replied firmly, needing not a moment to gather his thoughts.  "I'm just not positive that I'd like the issue to come up."

"Well if it does, it means that Yugi has decided he's comfortable enough to speak about it to the person he's closest to—the person he knows he can trust—who he knows will take care of him, and protect him from his fears.  If the discussion arises, I assure you, it will be a very good sign of recovery.  It will be his first step in facing his demons and moving on."

Yami blinked, hung his head.  "No one should have to deal with this," said at last, his voice tense and angry.

"No," the man agreed.  "But victims are capable of reclaiming their lives.  It requires work, and dedication, but it is possible.  I have very high hopes for Yugi.  I can tell that he's a fighter."

Yami shivered.  Those same words had been divulged to him before.  If more than one person saw it, it had to mean something.  It had to be true.  "Yes," Yami replied, "he has to be."

.

Yugi, having regained his appetite since coming home, had eaten several meals, and now came time for him to move his bowels.  It hurt.  He cried.  Solomon was dealing with it best he could.  Yami had left the bathroom, lost, out of place, nothing to offer in the way of comfort.  He didn't know what to do.

He hadn't planned on this.  It should have been in his mind all along, but he just hadn't taken it into account.  He had nothing to give his Yugi to soothe the pain and the fear.  He could only imagine what it was like to feel yourself being torn apart from the inside out—wounds that wouldn't heal.

Yugi was crying.  He was scared.  He didn't know what to do either, and all of his available energies were focused on desperately holding on to whatever scrap of reason was left within his being as his grandfather tried to console him.

Yami, sitting in the hall just outside the door, braced himself, and with every one of Yugi's strangled cries, he felt his heart break in his chest.  He hated the feeling of utter uselessness in the face of his son's pain, but he couldn't go back into that room.  He would go mad, he knew, so he endured Yugi's weeping from out here in the hall, feeling selfish, feeling vain.  He buried his face in his hands.  Nothing.  He could do nothing.  He wanted to scream.

Moments passed, Yugi's cries softened to whimpers, and Solomon joined him in the hallway, a distraught expression in his features.  He knelt to speak to Yami in a hushed tone.  "I have to take him to a doctor today," he said.  "This can't go on.  He's bleeding pretty badly.  We have to deal with this now."

"I'll stay with him," Yami offered, his desire for medical attention to be brought to Yugi overcoming his great fear of being useless.  "Call a doctor."

.

"I spoke with our family doctor over the phone," Solomon explained.  "He called in a prescription for a mild laxative to a nearby drugstore so that we don't have to go see him.  I'm going to go pick it up—do you need anything?"

Yami was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, his arms around Yugi, who clung to him now between throes of pain.  "Not that I can think of," he replied.  Then, softer, directed to the little one curled up against his chest, "Do you want your grandfather to get you something while he's at the store?"

Yugi stirred, his hands clutching tighter the fabric of Yami's shirt.  "Candy," he mumbled, his voice weak.

Solomon smiled.  "As you wish," he said, winked at Yami, and left.

Yami's gaze lingered in the doorway where the elder Mutou had stood, his fingers absently grazing through the boy's hair, stroking, petting.  Affection—this curious thing—moving in Yami's hands like instinct toward his beautiful son.

Yugi groaned, buried his face further into his father's chest, reveling in touch, grimacing at the feel of warmth—body temperature—between his legs.  The blood had run over, undoubtedly making a mess of his clothes.  It made him feel filthy, but he didn't move.  He was too tired and too ashamed to move.  He whimpered.

"It's okay," Yami breathed into his hair, sensing his discomfort.  His hand was running up and down the boy's back, smoothing that one line over and over again, hoping it was of some comfort, hoping it helped.  "I know it hurts," he said.

Yugi sat up with effort, rubbing at his eyes, his color flushed.  "Daddy," he whispered, having nothing to say but feeling the need to assure his presence.  The unspoken question needed an answer—_what's wrong with me?_

"Your body has been hurt very badly," Yami explained carefully.  "It's still recovering, and it will take time."  He paused, searching Yugi's eyes to determine whether he was ready.  It was difficult to tell, but the moment seemed right, so he plunged blindly forward into the subject.  "Do you remember getting hurt?"

Yugi hesitated, the emotions forming quietly under the surface, welling from the coolness of the shadowed places in his mind where the wounds were fresh.  "I remember," he began, drawing words from the silence, "getting cut."  He swallowed hard, his wide eyes sad as he stared up at Yami.  "I remember some man cutting me," he explained.  "Daddy…why did some man cut me?"

Yami sighed, his thoughts frantic, searching for a reason his boy would understand.  He needed to be honest.  He needed to be careful.  And gentle.  And simple.  "That man," he said, "was a very selfish man.  And what he did…what he did to you was wrong."  His gaze held Yugi's urgently.  This was very important.  This was very painful. 

"Why did he do that?"  There were large tears wetting the boy's eyes.

Yami shifted—hesitated—reached out and held his son's hands.  "Because sometimes, when someone is selfish, he will act cruelly to others…since he is unhappy and he wants to make other people unhappy, too."

Tears shed from Yugi's lower lids and raced down his full, soft cheeks.  His lip trembled when he whispered so quietly it broke Yami's heart, "Why?"

Yami hated this.  He had to say it.  "Because his life…hurts him very much.  He feels very angry because of it.  And he wants to take his anger out on others.  And that man took his anger out on you."  He wiped a tear from the boy's chin.  "He should never have done that to you, honey."

He paused to observe how his term of endearment had been received.  Yugi was obviously taking it in slowly, trying it on for size, turning it over and over in his hand, admiring it.  Honey.  Sticky-sweet and warm like summer and fireflies and climbing trees.  It would do very nicely.

.

Solomon brought back the prescription.  The label said to take one capsule with food.  The doctor had said to drink plenty of water, as well.  Yugi obeyed his grandfather's instructions religiously.  Solomon also brought back candy—Skittles and Hershey's and a number of brands of teeth-rotting concoctions.

Yami wanted to shower his son with all the sweets in the world.  He wanted to bundle Yugi up in rich purple cloths and lather him with good-smelling lotions and completely purge all the hurt from his young life.  He wanted to surround the boy with all of his favorite toys and foods and keep him happy and oblivious of the pain he was in.

Yami could do none of this.  He had to mind his son's sugar intake and let him play and walk on his own—let him limp, let him cry in pauses between videos and Tonka truck sessions.  Yami hated feeling helpless.  And no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't scoop his baby up and protect him from everything.

.

After dinner was bedtime.  Yami and Solomon faithfully escorted Yugi to his room.  They cleared a path to his bed through the mess of toys.  They changed him.  They tucked him in, kissed his sweet forehead goodnight, pulled the comforter close around his small form.

"Daddy?"

Yami grinned though his eyes were weary.  "Yes?"

"Daddy, will you stay," he asked.  "I don't feel good."

"Of course, honey," he replied, shooting Solomon an amused smile before turning to climb into the small bed.

Mr. Mutou turned out the light.  "Good night, you two," he whispered at the door, beaming fondly on his boys.

.

Yugi was in distress.  It was obvious far before he even woke up.  Yami sensed it in the restless tossing and turning beside him, his arm draped across a writhing frame.  The sheets felt hotter.  The blankets had been discarded.

Yami's eyes snapped open, all the senses of his more unconscious self screaming that something was terribly wrong.  Yugi was in pain.  Or he was having a nightmare.  Or both.  Yami forced himself to wake, leaned cautiously forward.

"Yugi?"

There was no response—more restlessness.

"Yugi, wake up!"

The boy beside him stirred, perspiration clinging to his warm skin.  He shivered.  He moaned.  "Dadeee," he murmured.

"Honey, what's wrong?"  The alarm was clear in Yami's voice.

"I don't feel good."

Yami panicked.  "Do you need to go to the bathroom," he asked, "or are you going to be sick?"

The boy whimpered.  "I don't know."

Yami got to his feet.  "Come on," he commanded, half lifting Yugi from the bed and half pulling him.  "We'll go to the bathroom."

"Daddy, I'm scared," Yugi whined, his feet unsteady beneath him.

Yami held him up firmly, disturbed at how warm the skin of his arms felt through the pajamas.  "It'll be okay," he said.  He didn't know that it would be okay.  He didn't know what was happening, and he didn't know how to deal with it.  He needed to get his son to the bathroom, but he also wanted Solomon there, because he didn't think he could handle this alone.

"Daddy?"

"It's okay."

He couldn't go to Solomon's room—the bathroom was nearer—and he had the distinct feeling that there was a very sick child in his arms who needed to be within close range of a commode in a very short time.  Idly, he wished that Solomon would wake on his own, but he knew it was unlikely that anything short of a natural disaster would rouse the old man from his deep sleep.

This _was_ a natural disaster.

He flicked the light switch on, shepherding Yugi into the small room.  "Tell me," he said, "how do you feel sick?  Can you tell daddy which part feels sick?"

"My tummy hurts," he explained.

Well, _that_ was vague.  Yami needed to know the particulars of Yugi's condition—which part of him was going to have to be dealt with in a few short moments.

"Are you going to throw up or do you need to sit down on the toilet," he asked.

Yugi seemed confused, his face pale, his eyes searching, tired and feverish.  "Sit down," he decided at last.

Yami helped him, feeling conspicuous, feeling awkward again, unsure of where to sit or what to do with his hands or if he should say anything—what he should say—and the air smelled like blood.  Nothing was happening.  Yami didn't know what to do.

"Daddy, it hurts."

"I know, honey.  Be strong."  Yugi looked exhausted, his eyes threatening to close.  Yami held his hands.  "Yugi," he said, wondering if he should be getting a response, wondering what should be happening.

The boy hesitated, looked as if he were about to say something, exhaled sharply.  His eyes got wide.  He was scared.  He started to throw up.  Yami thought quickly, grabbing the small trashcan by the sink and holding it up to the boy.  It helped little—the stuff was mostly down Yugi's chest by that time.

Yugi sobbed between tremors of retching, terrified of what was happening to him, shivering, and Yami did his best to be of comfort and sweep the bangs out of his face.  That awkward feeling again.  It was vomit.  It was diarrhea.

It was not that he was entirely embarrassed by Yugi's bodily functions.  He had just never given them much thought.  But here was his boy, coming apart freely now—pouring—from both ends, and Yami was powerless to do anything but stand by and hold his hands between bouts of wrenching pain and nausea.

Eventually everything stopped.  Eventually Yugi's body succeeded in pushing out whatever had offended it.  Eventually whatever food had been in his system was now elsewhere.  He sat there in his filth, fighting to stay awake, suddenly feeling empty beyond reason and impossibly tired.

Wordlessly, Yami cleaned him—choked on his feeling of awkwardness and wiped clean the various parts of his boy that were filthy—places on his hikari's body he never thought he'd have need to touch—carefully stripped his clothes and hurriedly straightened the bathroom before returning to Yugi's room to dress him in clean pajamas.

"Do you want to sleep on the bathroom floor," he asked.

Yugi whimpered but said nothing, half asleep where he stood.

"It's okay—we'll sleep in the bed."

Together, exhausted and in need of a shower, they climbed under the covers once more.  Yugi was instantly unconscious, weary from the peculiar battle he'd just fought.  Yami stayed up a little longer, tense where he lay, ready to make the mad dash back to the bathroom if need be.

To his dismay, he felt himself beginning to slip away.  He couldn't fight it.  His grip tightened around his son—as if he'd also slip from Yami's control as soon he fell asleep.  It was hopeless.  He was tired and terrified and utterly spent.  He begrudgingly succumbed.

It was then he realized he'd handled this little episode completely on his own.


	7. the song that he remembers

Many things in my life are changing very fast.  I am saying goodbye to very good friends.  I am saying goodbye to a sibling who is getting married.  I find myself in a place where I need to decide my major and my goal in life.  I am so impossibly terrified.  I've always hated change.  I wish things didn't have to change like this.  I wish I had a better relationship with my father.  I wish I had a better relationship with my God.  I wish I didn't have to set my energies on so many adult concerns.  I wish I could suspend myself within these childish dreams of Peter Pan and wild horses and Anime characters I've surrounded myself with as friends.  The friends I am not forced to part with.

I want to stay here with them and nevernever grow up.

.

.

.

It was the medication.  It was the Ra forsaken medication.  As soon as Solomon was told what had happened the next morning, he made an appointment to go see the doctor, who—after close inspection of Yugi's ears and nose—deducted that, so sorry, it had been the dosage of the medication that had had Yugi unraveling from the inside out the previous night.

Yami hated modern medicine. 

The doctor said Yugi had an allergic reaction—he said they could all be thankful the boy hadn't gone into anaphylactic shock.  Yami didn't know what anaphylactic shock was and he didn't care to know—all he knew was this man had ordered that stuff be put immediately into Yugi's system, and it had hurt him very badly.

Yami hated the doctor.

The doctor said they had two options: they could either stay on the medication at a much lower dosage—just enough to keep Yugi's stool relatively loose, or they could take him off of it entirely and find themselves where they were at the beginning, with the boy torn up every time he went to the bathroom.  Either way, it would take time for those lacerations to heal.  They would eventually stop bleeding but it would be another six months for them to close up, and in that time, they would still be open to any number of infections.

None of this made Yami feel better about the situation, but Solomon finally decided to dramatically lower the dosage, and if the previous nights events ever repeated themselves, he would throw the damn medicine away and turn to natural laxatives instead.  Yami was not pleased, but he doubted that anything decided in this particular area would make him happy.

They returned home.  Yugi was still tired, and rather embarrassed after having to answer all of the doctor's questions, most of which his father ended up answering for him.  Yugi didn't like talking to strangers.  His friends were one thing, and the doctors were another.  Above all, he'd much rather talk to his Daddy about the things that hurt him.

He was slow on his feet that day.  It was hurt to sit.  It was difficult to lie down.  Or play with toys.  Or take a bath, which Yami helped him do.  He didn't want to eat anything at dinner, but he was very, very thirsty.  He was hungry, too, but he didn't want to eat.  He was terrified to eat.

"I'll get sick, Daddy," he explained.

"You'll get sick worse if you don't eat, honey."

He ate his spaghetti.  He ate it very slowly, pressured under the eyes of his father.  He ate a few of his green beans, too, making a face when he swallowed.

"That's enough," his father said at last, excusing him to go put his plate on the kitchen counter and brush his teeth and get ready for bed.  Yami found him in his room several moments later to tuck him into bed.  "You come get me if you need me, okay?"

Yugi was sooo sleepy there under his blankets, staring up at his father through half-closed eyes.  "Okay," he agreed.  His lids were heavy and he couldn't keep them open, having fought one inner battle after another this past week, his little body worn out and full of sleep.

Yami brushed his lips against the boy's cheek—a liberty he would never have allowed himself had he not assumed the role of parent—a blessing now, a responsibility he took with utmost solemnity and pride—this quick kiss goodnight while his boy was already fast on his way to REM sleep. 

Yami turned the lights down on his way out of the door, which he closed all but a crack, leaving a blade of light juxtaposing into the dark space of Yugi's quarters, across his sleeping form, to guide him to the hallway and his father's room should he wake unexpectedly in the night.

.

It was good.  It was good for him to play—to be with friends and take turns doing what Tristan wanted, what Joey wanted, and what he himself wanted.  Yugi had to learn to share and be patient—he could not always have his way, or force his friends to play the same make believe games over and over.

It was good, but Yami still found himself concerned, pacing downstairs whenever he wasn't rushing to the boy's room at every foreign noise or confessing his worries to Solomon between customers in the shop.  Yami was concerned—that is, he was troubled by the choice of activities on the part of either of the older boys upstairs.

"Stop fussing," Solomon would tell him.  "I swear, you're just like a woman."

Yami shot him a look.

"It's fine," the elder man continued.  "Let them listen to the radio and watch TV.  It's perfectly normal."

"Have you even turned the television on lately, Solomon?  That thing is dangerous," Yami declared incredulously.  "Every channel is nothing but sexual innuendo and cursing and violence!"

"It's Saturday afternoon," he objected.

"Nonetheless!  Radio commercials showcase one brand of condom or another.  All the songs are about drugs and promiscuity—"

"You worry far too much," Solomon interrupted, his amusement apparent in his voice.  "You can't keep Yugi from the society he lives in.  You just hope he knows well enough to be mindful what he should and should not be listening to and watching."

"But he is so young, Solomon—"

"—He's fifteen."

Yami faltered, his brow knit, his expression akin to a man who's just been struck.

"Yugi is fifteen," Mr. Mutou repeated slowly, firmly, gently reminding the other man of the ultimate truth.  "He has survived the media thus far, and I trust both Joseph and Tristan not to expose him to anything harmful."

.

"You listen to _Cure_?!"  Joey was rolling his eyes where he sat in the corner of his friend's room, a recent issue of some comic superhero in his hand.  "How lame is that?"

Tristan, whom the jest was directed to, huffed beside the small radio on Yugi's desk.  "The Cure is not _lame_.  I'll have you know they are a classic—a pioneer in the way of alternative music as we know it."

Joey laughed out loud.  "You've got you're whole speech and everything?  Yeah, that's lame.  Change the station—I wanna listen to some _present day_ alternative—not that nineteen-eighties crap.  Find some Blink 182—or Dashboard Confessional, Puddle of Mud, Tool—something like that."

"Give me a break, Joe.  You've got to pay respect to the great ones—U2, Depeche Mode, the Stones—you can't honestly tell me you don't like the Rolling Stones."

"—I don't like the Rolling Stones."

"Then something's wrong with you."

Yugi smiled as he watched his friends argue, though he didn't have a clue as to what they were arguing about.  It was still fun to watch.  He giggled as he lay across his bed with a dozen comic books splayed open before him.

Joey threw a shoe at his friend.  "Change the friggin station, Tristan!"

The other boy threw the shoe back.  "Watch your mouth, Joey!"

Sean Paul.  The Righteous Brothers.  A commercial for a phone company.  Something in Spanish.  Ludwig van Beethoven's _allegro ma non troppo _from his sixth symphony.  A plucky, twangy guitar tune from a mildly popular group, at which Tristan stopped his channel surfing to deliver rebuttal to some comment from Joey.

Yugi tuned his friends out, his color paling almost instantly.  Something about the particular song stuck out in his mind.  He couldn't figure it out.  It seemed so familiar—but he couldn't place it—the lyrics slowly reaching his ears and flipping on the switches in his brain one by one.  He had heard those words before.  He couldn't explain how, but he began to say them quietly with the singer.

"Welcome to existence.  Everyone's here."

The song continued, Joey and Tristan continued, the collective noise drowning Yugi's small, unsteady voice out.  He was frightened—how could he possibly know these words?  He couldn't remember hearing them before, but he still knew them.

"What happens next?  What happens next?"

Yugi sat up.  His voice gaining strength, he put the words to the tune and began to sing, softly at first but with growing strength and confidence.

"I dare you to move.  I dare you to move.  I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor."

The other boys in the room paused in their heated conversation, one after the other turning to look at Yugi with disbelief.  He was sitting on his bed singing the song on the radio.  Tristan and Joey regarded each other, dumfounded.

"I dare you to move.  I dare you to move like today never happened, today never happened before."  Yugi stared at his friends, pulling the words from a buried memory, the expression on his face pleading, as if to say, _how do I know this?_

Joey did the only thing he could think to do.  He bolted out the door in search of Yami, Yugi's voice following after him, "Welcome to the fallout.  Welcome to resistance.  The tension is here."

"Yami, you'll wanna come here, trust me."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing—jus' come here.  Yugi.  He remembers the song."

Any further explanation was cut short as Yami dashed to his son's room.  There, Yugi stood on his bed now, belting out the lyrics to the song, the tinny voice of the original singer on the radio thwarted by the boy's enthusiasm, and Tristan sat with his mouth hanging open.

"Maybe redemption has stories to tell.  Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell.  Where can you run to escape from yourself," Yugi sang, his bright eyes alighting on his father in the doorway, his large smile exclaiming, _aren't you proud of me?  _There were tears in his eyes—disbelieving tears, frightened tears, tears of excitement as he sang in a clear and true voice. "Where you gonna go?  Where you gonna go?  Salvation is here."

Yami was beyond words.  Yugi looked so beautiful standing there in his triumph, the chorus falling from his mouth with glorious fluidity.  He _remembered_.  He remembered a song.  Amusing, that the first thing to come back to him would be music.  Not a name, not a childhood memory, but a song—this song about existence and forgiveness and _lifting yourself up_ after you fall.

.

"How is the medication working?"

"Well," Solomon replied.

"He hasn't reacted to it again like he did at first?"

"No, everything seems fine."

"—Excuse me, doctor," Yami interrupted impatiently, "These are rather ordinary questions.  What do you have to say that you couldn't say in the room?"

The family practice doctor, with a name like Johnson or Jackson or Thompson, sighed in frustration.  "Something I need to know—how badly is he bleeding?"

Yami was ill at ease with discussing such matters with a stranger, so Solomon answered, "We change him twice a day—once in the morning, and once at night before he goes to bed, mostly for his comfort, but there is no need beyond that."

"I would have guessed as much," the doctor admitted, "and it concerns me.  I need to know the extent of his wounds—would you happen to know the depths of the lacerations?  For purposes of anticipating damaged nerves and such."

Yami set his jaw.

"We don't really know," Solomon replied softly, humbly, his slight shock at the doctor's insensitivity masked rather poorly.

Doctor Johnson (or Jacobson, was it?) shifted his weight on his feet.  "Of course.  Now I brought you out here, because I need the consent of his guardian, since Yugi himself is a minor.  In order to learn the degree of his wounds—to better help him, in the case of his blood loss remaining constant—I need to perform an internal exam."

The other men stared at him.

"It's a simple procedure, really," the doctor continued, "involving a tactile examination of the rectal walls—"

"No."  Yami's eyes were dangerous, his voice tense, and rising.  "Who do you think you are?  How can you be permitted to do such a—"

"I assure you, it is perfectly sound.  It is crucial that I understand the details of his injuries, and whether they need to be dealt with immediately and Yugi referred to a proctologist.  He cannot bleed so heavily for much longer if the wounds are very deep."

Yami reared to deliver another onslaught of accusations and insults, when Solomon stilled him with a hand on his shoulder.  "Yami my boy," he said, "he's right.  I trust his opinion, and if he feels he needs to do this, I will let him."

"Do you know what that will do to Yugi," Yami exclaimed, turning on the old man, the fire in his eyes.  The fire of mad injustice, the fire thirsting for recompense of all the wrong.  Even the thought of this stranger touching Yugi in the soft places of him that hurt and bled was wrong.  Where is the way of vengeance for so much hurt in such a young life as his Yugi?

"He will be okay," Solomon replied firmly.  "He will move on from this and he will be okay."

"No!  It will be degrading and embarrassing and painful.  I will not allow it!"

"—I am not giving you a choice."  The elder Mutou's voice was measured, final, trying with care to lay down the absolutes, while at the same time convince Yami of the reasons why it was so important that the doctor execute whatever procedures he felt necessary for the diagnosis and care of his grandson.

Yami's breath was heavy in his chest like a lead weight.  Defeated.  "I cannot…"

"You can," Solomon assured him gently.  "And you will.  And as long as you are calm, he will be calm.  Panic, and he will panic."

The implication of the thing like a light turned on behind his eyes.  "Solomon…you will be with him, too."  More a question than a statement.  Oh, please…

"You'll be there to keep him calm," the other man explained, "and it will be difficult enough without someone looking over your shoulder."

"Solomon…"

"He needs you now, Yami, more than I."

.

Yugi was so small there sitting on the examination bed.  He smiled half-heartedly when his father entered the room, but his instinctual fear of the place was obvious.  "Can we go home now?"

Yami stood beside him, hesitant to look him in the eyes, the anger inside him welling profusely, and he was choking on it as he tried to act nonchalantly.  "Actually, Yugi, the doctor still has one more thing to do." 

Swallow your nausea and do what Solomon sent you in here to do—sugar coat the lie you're about to feed him.

_I'm so sorry, my sweet boy._

Yami leaned to his son's level to speak more urgently to him.  "Honey," he said, his tone alerting the boy to listen—this is serious, "I know you remember being cut."

Yugi's expression was unreadable.

"The doctor needs to know how bad those cuts are," he continued, the anger and disgust somehow suppressed into this dark, quiet part of himself that shut out the words coming off his own lips, "so he's going to put his fingers inside of you to feel the cuts."

Fear like a doe in headlights in those amethyst eyes.  "No, Daddy," he whispered, "I don't want that."

Yami strangled the apathetic part of himself that would have lifted Yugi in his arms and lit out of the place like a madman.  "I know, honey, but it has to happen.  I'll be here with you, and it will be over before you know it," Yami lied.  He knew how his boy would handle such a thing.

"No," Yugi wept, "please, daddy—I don't want him to see me."

That was, see him naked.  See him vulnerable.

Yami held the boy's hand.  "I'll be here," he repeated, distantly, firmly, as to say, _this is going to happen, whether we want it to or not_.  He helped the boy strip his clothes and put on the little cotton gown, all the while trying to soothe Yugi's frightened weeping, but he was inconsolable. 

The doctor entered the room.  Yugi was sitting on the little bed with the wax paper cover over it to prevent diseases from spreading.  Yugi was not diseased, but his blood was already on the wax paper.  His hands were clasped nervously in his lap.  He chewed his lip to keep the tears from this man he did not know.

"All right—Yugi, are we ready," the doctor asked while he vigorously washed his hands at the little sink in the room.

The young Mutou didn't say anything.  Standing beside him, Yami nodded for the doctor to continue.

"Stand in front of the bed," the doctor instructed, motioning with a hand as he crossed the room.

Yugi hesitantly obeyed, his legs trembling beneath him.

"Turn around, if you please."

The boy turned to face away from the doctor, tears running silently down his cheeks.  He was so afraid, his breath coming raggedly.

"Bend over the examination bed—no, a little more—that's good."

Yami circled around the end of the bed to stand across the small expanse from his son, whose eyes were slammed shut.  Yami held his hands.

KY Jelly.

"I need you to relax."

Yugi was trembling unreservedly.  Biting his lip.

"I need you to relax for me."

Yami cupped Yugi's face, his eyes opening instantly to look at his father.  "Yugi," he commanded firmly, "relax."

"I'm scared," the boy sobbed.

"I know, honey, but you've got to be brave.  You are so brave—I've seen it in you.  Be brave now, baby.  I know you can."  He studied his son's face intently—recognized his efforts to control his breathing, his fear waning for a brief moment.

And then the pain across his features, grimacing, clenching his teeth hard, sharp intake of breath.  A sob.  Fingers digging into Yami's arms.  The fear in his eyes pleading his father, _why is this happening to me?_

Eyes closed tight again, and his breath catching suddenly in his chest, his body jerking at the unwelcome feeling of the doctor's prodding touch against his prostate.  Blood running down his legs.

It was happening all over again.  No matter what intention lay behind this ministration, all Yugi felt was the pain—this stranger hurting him until he had what he wanted.  Yugi was being raped again, only this time, his father was with him.  His father was holding his hands and _allowing_ it to happen.  His father was _promoting_ it.

With these thoughts in mind, Yami suddenly found himself glaring darkly at the doctor with fingers _inside_ his precious Yugi, causing such pain.  Doctor Johnson (or whoever he was) caught the look meant for him, nostrils flaring with angry breath, teeth bared, and if humans had been created for it, Yami would have been growling, filled with the hottest rage toward this man.

The doctor stopped cold, freezing as if a dog had turned on him.

It enraged Yami more—the prolonging of this spectacle of Yugi bent over the examination table like an animal, sobbing with face buried in the muscle of Yami's shoulder.

_Finish_, Yami mouthed angrily, which the doctor immediately obeyed, under the distinct impression there would be consequences if he didn't.  Yugi's body shuddered and the doctor stepped away and to the sink, for more vigorous washing.

Yami didn't look.  His energies were concentrated on the small trembling form of his son.  The boy was crying weakly now—mere whimpers muffled against the fabric of his father's shirt.

"I'll give you a few moments," the doctor explained on the way out of the door.

Yami watched him leave, angry and mistrustful.  A full thirty seconds after the door had been shut—he had to make sure no one else dared enter—he pulled back slightly to look in Yugi's eyes.  "I am so proud of you," he whispered.  "You are very brave."

Yugi sniffled, his cries having ceased, comforted by the presence of his father and the silently communicated _I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_ in his eyes.

"What do you say to ice cream," Yami asked.  It was a bribe—they both knew—_forgive me for this._

"Yes, please," the boy murmured, accepting both the bribe and the apology.

Yami kissed his forehead, cleaned him with the limited means of a roll of paper towels above the sink, dressed him, and sat with him until the doctor came with Solomon, said a few words, and they were free to go.

.

Rocky Road.  It was his favorite.  It was the only flavor he remembered ever tasting, but he decided it was his favorite.  It was so chunky and chocolaty and cold—and it hurt his teeth a little, so he ate it slowly.  It sat there in its' little paper cup, melting away as he stared at it.

"Honey, don't you like your ice cream?"

Solomon hadn't joined them on this particular excursion—feeling he'd do best to not intrude after he'd forced the doctor visit on the both of them.  Guessing his boys were more than a little disenchanted with him at the moment, he'd given Yami some cash and explained he had to open the shop—he was missing the good business hours—and he'd meet them at home.

So here they were, content to remain in each other's silence, the mutual understanding between them that what had just happened needed its own time to settle in.

"Yugi, did you hear me?"

"Yes Daddy," the boy replied obediently.  "I'm waiting for it to be not so cold."

Yami was not ignorant—he recognized the thoughtful consideration in his son's eyes.  He knew Yugi was struggling with some grand revelation.  He knew him that well.  In fact, Yami had taken to the idea of Yugi as his son so wholeheartedly, and with such fierce loyalty, he actually believed in some part of his brain that he had conceived and given birth to the kid.  He loved him that well.

"Daddy," Yugi spoke down to the table, his eyes lost somewhere on the sticky surface.

"Yes?"  Yami was everything but impatient.

"Daddy," Yugi repeated, drawing his words with care from his meager vocabulary, "why do people touch to hurt?"

Yami sighed, vaguely conscious of the other families and couples sitting within earshot in the donut and ice cream shop.  "Because they are selfish," he replied carefully.  "And they derive pleasure in hurting other people.  But I need you to remember, Yugi, that the doctor only wanted to help."

Yugi was quiet and pensive with this.  Finally, "You don't touch to hurt."

"That's because I care about you, and when I touch it's because I'm trying to help you," he explained.

Yami felt eyes, and he turned to glare at a young couple sitting across the aisle, sharing a sundae.  They were staring with surprised interest at this apparently slow boy with funny hair, who seemed to be saying the strangest things about the man they only assumed was his father, although he had the _same_ funny hair—something rather narcissistic—and they only _hoped_ he was the boy's father.

"Yugi, maybe we ought to talk about this later."

The boy looked up with the purest, childlike naivety and said, "When you touch me, it feels good."

More eyes, and a slightly lower level of general volume than before, as if the entire place had momentarily hushed itself to listen in on the peculiar and alarming discussion.  Yami felt the swift stab of protective jealousy—they were all looking at _his_ Yugi—and he glared over his shoulder at another gawking individual, who took no heed of him until he snorted in warning, not unlike a bull before he charges.  The stranger looked away.

"Come here," Yami instructed suddenly, standing from the table.  "We're going to wash your hands, and then we're going home."

"But my ice cream—"

"I'll buy a gallon at the store," he replied, gently nudging Yugi out of his seat and away from prying eyes.

In the small, sticky, one-stall restroom, Yami assured himself they were alone and then addressed his son.  "You can feel the difference from a stranger's touch and when I touch you, because you know me and you trust me.  I am gentle with you, honey, because I love you."

Yugi stared at him, wide-eyed, absorbing his words.

"It's very good that you know the difference between touches," Yami continued.  "It may prevent you from being hurt again like you were before."  He sighed and shifted his weight, carefully considering how to proceed.  "And it's good that you want to talk about the difference.  I am glad to talk about these things with you.  But Yugi, we have to be cautious of _where_ we talk about these things."

"Why," Yugi asked, scuffing the toe of one shoe along the floor.

"Because, while you and I understand what we're talking about, people around us who overhear our words may not understand.  In a public place like this one, strangers who hear you talking about people touching you are likely to be very confused."

"Why are they confused?"

Yami sighed again.  "Honey, there are a lot of children out there…with daddies who do not love them as they should.  Their daddies hurt them, and it's very wrong, and when a stranger—maybe a friend, or a teacher at school, or even a stranger in the store—hears about it, that person is obliged to go to the police, so that the government can take the child away from whoever would hurt him."

"Why do their daddies hurt them?"

Maybe this was a bad idea.  "Different reasons," he explained hesitantly.  "Some daddies weren't ready to have children.  Others are just angry, and take their anger out on their children.  For whatever reason, it's wrong to hurt a child, and it's a very good thing—to take a child away from a father that hurts him, and to put that child in a new home, and a new family, where he will be safe and loved."

Tears were in those amethyst eyes again.  Yami wondered how many times his poor Yugi had cried in that one day alone.

"Daddy," the boy said, a sob threatening to choke him as his voice echoed his father's words, "were you ready to have me?"

Yami's insides melted.  "Honey," he said, bending to his son's eye level, "I have waited for you my whole life."  And it wasn't a lie.  "Listen, all I mean to say is that strangers will not understand the things we talk about.  They may become worried listening to you go on, and they may think I'm the one you talk about—the one who hurts you."

"—But you don't hurt me."

"I know that," Yami agreed, brushing a tear from the boy's cheek, "and you know that, but those people out there…they don't understand the things you're going through.  They might become suspicious of me.  They might even try to report me, and take you away from me.  And if the government suspects that I'm hurting you, it will be very difficult to get you back."

"I don't want to go away."

Yami smiled.  "Baby, I don't want you to go either.  That's why we have to be _so_ careful, okay?"

Yugi thought it over with resolute seriousness.  This was an important task, he understood very well.  He nodded finally in approval.

Yami tousled his hair affectionately.  "Good," he said.  "Now let's go home."


	8. error and redemption

"In Navajo, _dideests' iit_ means _I will hear about it_.  The word implies a responsibility on the part of the person who is listening _to listen_.  _To listen_ is not a passive behavior; those who _are listening_ must be _open to hearing_ things they might not particularly want to hear."

--Nasdijj__

.

.

.

"I don't want him to go to that doctor again," Yami was saying. 

Judging by his tone and posture, Solomon deducted that he was royally put off.  "Doctor Johnson has been our family doctor for years—ever since Yugi was very young," he explained slowly, trying his best to still the other man's wrath.   "I trust him with my health and with the health of my family, and he's never once steered us wrong."

"You weren't there, Solomon," Yami objected, his efforts to keep his voice down for the sake of his sleeping son thwarted by his strong sense of having been betrayed.  "You didn't see his face—he was terrified.  He will not be able to handle that again."

"—And I sincerely hope it doesn't _have_ to happen again," the elder Mutou agreed, ignoring a most exasperated rolling of Yami's eyes.  "Listen.  I don't pretend to know everything about medicine.  That's why I trust Doctor Johnson's opinion.  He needed to do what he did today—and we learned some good news, too.  The lacerations are shallow enough that they should heal on their own quite easily.  Don't you understand that we _had_ to know?  Yugi could have been bleeding to death and we would never have been the wiser.  I need you to trust me.  This family can't work if you don't trust me."

Yami exhaled sharply, brow tense, stubborn and angry.  "No. I need to make decisions for him.  If I am to be his father, I _have_ to make the decisions.  This family can't work if you constantly take the power away from me."

The older man sighed, shook his head.  "I understand what you mean," he explained, "but I'm sorry—I will have the deciding vote in some things.  I pay the medical expenses, so I will have autonomy in choosing treatments and medications and such.  I know you don't like it, but you'll have to learn to accept that."

Yami looked away, a moment in which he slowly digested these things.  "Forgive me, Solomon," he said at last, his eyes downcast in shame.  "You are right.  I am only angry, for the most part, at the injustice of it all.  Yugi shouldn't have to endure any of this."  Their eyes met.  "It's just not right."

The other man shifted his weight, his expression softening, understanding overcoming him and turning his irritation into empathy.  "Yami, my boy," he began, choosing words carefully as he spoke, "misfortune knocks at everyman's door.  What makes a person either content or dissatisfied with his life is how he deals with whatever misfortune befalls him.  Many things happen to us in our lives—things we cannot change, things we have no control over—and we can either become angry at these things and resolve to shut out the world henceforth, or we can accept them and what lessons they deem to teach us."

Solomon went on with utmost seriousness, some painful memory having returned to him suddenly in those wizened old eyes.  "I could be bitter today, but I decided a long time ago that I was going to be the kind of person who accepts misfortune as another part of life and who anticipates growth from suffering."  Something unfamiliar came into his voice, something awful, something Yami had never wanted to hear.  "It could have been so easy to shut out the world as I watched my beloved wife…slowly lose her fight with cancer.  I could have been so bitter, when I lived to see the end of my son's days.  My son, whom I loved so dearly."

The old man faltered, emotion strong in his trembling voice.  "But I promised myself I wouldn't be embittered against the world because I had no control over it, even when I buried my daughter-in-law and adopted her orphan.  Even now as I face infirmity and incontinence, and all the uncomfortable conditions that accompany old age.  Even now as I watch my sweet grandson suffer.  I will not become angry with the doctors, or the nursing homes in my future, or politicians who take away my Medicare benefits or any of the sort.

"I _love_ my family.  I love them too much to be bitter.  I will not do it.  The memories I have of my beautiful wife, my brilliant son, and my loving daughter-in-law remind me of all I have to live for, and all the ways I am blessed.  I am healthy.  I am alive.  I still have one very special grandchild, and even thought he's been through hell and he hurts all the time, he's alive.  He can still smile and love and—he's _alive_.  I am so blessed, Yami.  Who am I to say my perfect life isn't fair?  I would not even _think_ it."

Struck by the other man's humility in the face of obvious loss and suffering, Yami paid respect with his silence, the inadequate apology of _I didn't know_ mutually understood between them now.

"I don't want to be presumptuous enough," Solomon continued with haste, "to say I am wiser than you.  I am not foolish—I realize how old you are.  But please understand that I have seen enough hardship to know that this is only a devastation as long as we believe it is.  I have seen Yugi overcome many struggles in his life, and I know that this too will pass.  Do you trust me?"

Yami swallowed the pang of guilt he felt at having been so thoughtless.  "Please forgive my doubt," he said at last.  "Of course I trust you."

.

Yami assumed that, with the rough day he'd just been through, Yugi would sleep soundly that night and have no need to seek out his father's comforting presence, so it came as quite a surprise when he heard familiar footfalls in the hallway outside his door.  He sighed, preparing to toss aside the warmth of his covers long enough to let Yugi climb into his arms, but after several long moments without sign of his door opening or his son pleading entrance, Yami grew puzzled.

Yugi was moving out there, he could tell, but there was hesitation, and shuffling there in the dark, and the footsteps went away and back to his room.  Now something had to be amiss, and Yami knew he wouldn't sleep until he saw it to rights, so he left his bed and sought out his son in his room.  The place was dark as the night was dark, and it smelled like urine.  Yugi had wet the bed.

Yami's eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he saw the boy bent over the mattress, towel in his hands and trying to soak up the wetness in the sheets, but it was to no avail.  He was crying because he was broken—he didn't know why he was broken, but he was hard at work trying to fix himself, but it wasn't working—nothing seemed to work, and it only frustrated him and made him ashamed of himself, that he was so helpless he'd peed in his own bed.

For a long moment, Yami only watched him, pained, beside himself with sympathy.  When his boy finally saw him there in the doorway, he stopped cold in his efforts and hung his head, crying harder in shame.  "I'm sorryyyyy," he wailed, the ammonia smell all over him and so tired.  It struck Yami awkwardly that Yugi had just apologized for something—he assumed the bedwetting—but it wasn't his _fault_, and he didn't know why the boy would apologize for something that wasn't his fault.  Guilt could be such a fickle thing in as confused a mind as Yugi's.

Yami had seen him through so much already—held his hands through the hemorrhaging and the nightmares—he had seen the boy more than naked—torn, and helpless—and this was just a very small thing in comparison.  Yami wasn't fazed in the slightest, and his heart was suddenly overwhelmed and he found rather absently that he'd crossed the room and was kneeling down to his son.

"Honey," he said, but the rest stuck in his mouth and he forgot what he'd wanted to say, and everything left him but, _my sweet Yugi, I wish you didn't have to be so sad._

"Please don't be mad at me," Yugi wept, his voice small there in the darkness and the night.

It took a moment for Yami to assimilate what the boy had suggested—that he would be _mad_ at Yugi for something that was beyond his control.  Yami _was_ mad.  He was furious, but not at his son.  And not about this. 

Realizing that his silence was no doubt adding to Yugi's insecurity, Yami took him sternly in his arms and pulled him into a tight hug.  Afraid only at first, the boy relaxed against his father's frame and hugged back, burying his face in Yami's shirt.

"No," Yami replied firmly, "I am not mad at you.  I know it was an accident.  It was not your fault.  I am not mad at you.  I am not mad at you," he kept saying, gently, surely, whispering into Yugi's hair and holding him close through the tears.

.

Yugi was very quiet the next day.

Nothing was said of his bedwetting, and not much was said at all.  Yami was still in his own ways trying to atone for what he'd put the boy through, so he rather spoiled Yugi with his favorite games and activities.

They watched the first season of some comedy show Joey lent them—a futuristic cartoon with outlandish characters and simple (at times crude) humor.  Normally, Yami would have protested the show's more-often-than-desirable swearing and promiscuous content, but he felt he was in no position to restrict his son from a bit of mindless television.  He was still making amends, after all.

It became a routine—Yami sitting on the living room floor with Yugi's head in his lap—that whenever some sexual innuendo paraded across the screen, Yami would cover the boy's eyes until it had passed.  Yugi made no objection, and Yami had the distinct suspicion that his mind was wandering—not entirely focused on the show.  It was just as well.

Those several long hours were good.  They were restful, and quiet with Yugi laying across the floor, eyes moving with the action on-screen, his father's hand smoothing lazy circles on his stomach, peaceful and content—the feeling of being full and silent and lulled to sleep by the soft rubbing of your skin.

At a glance, Yami was surprised to discover that Yugi was having an erection.  He wasn't entirely embarrassed by it—no matter what the boy wanted to believe, he was fifteen—everything is sex when you're fifteen.  He was most likely unaware of it in the first place.  Even so…

Yami withdrew his hand.

He could acknowledge facts, but he would not encourage fantasizing while your father's hand is still resting on your stomach.  But then…he _wasn't_ the boy's father.

Yami decided to push it from his mind and not think on it again.

.

"He drew on the _wall_," Kei was repeating, more for his own thoughts than for clarification.

"Yes," Yami affirmed, visibly perplexed.  It was a good change to speak to the man face to face rather than over the phone.

"What did he draw?"

"A dog."

The other man hesitated.  "What color?" he asked.

"Blue."  Yami failed to see the significance.

"Hmm."  Kei was tapping a pencil on a pad of paper.  "And where exactly was this wall in the vicinity of the house?"

Yami stared at him.  "The hallway outside of his bedroom."

Kei nodded solemnly, as if he'd reached a very profound revelation.  "Well," he said, "this could easily mean one of two things.  You see, the dog could either symbolize loyalty, friendship, affection—which explains why he would place it in plain view.  He wanted you to recognize it.  It wasn't a drawing just for himself—it was for his family."

Yami blinked.

"Or," the psychologist continued, "the dog could symbolize the trickster, and all slyness and disobedience, ergo he places it in an area of the house where he knows you are bound to see it.  A sign of rebellion.  Maybe he wants attention.  Anyway, blue is a rather neutral color, so it's difficult to say."

"It just alarmed me that he would so openly vandalize a—"

"—I wouldn't call it _vandalism_.  A drawing is merely a creative outlet used to express an emotion or an idea."

Yami's expression became unreadable.  "Yugi knows well enough to not deface something in the house.  It's no different than him walking into his grandfather's room and coloring all over the dresser."

Kei nodded.  "It's true, usually instinctive morals inhibit children from doing things that are obviously wrong.  But Yugi is no ordinary child.  He is reaching out."  They were both silent for a moment.  "What did you do when you found the drawing?"

"I told him it was bad to draw on the walls, that he has coloring books and sketch paper to draw on instead, and I made him clean the wall," Yami replied.  "I briefly entertained the idea of giving him a spanking."

Kei's response was immediate.  "No.  There's no need for that.  Spankings are the most archaic means of disciplining a child, and Yugi's been through enough abuse.  He doesn't need his father striking him as well."

Yami looked stunned.  "I thought all parents gave their children spankings.  It's not abuse."

Kei sighed sharply.  "No, no, no.  Yugi is reaching out to you.  He needs you to acknowledge him, not beat him."

"—I never said I would _beat_ him," Yami snapped, put off by the man's crude phraseology.

"I realize that, Mr. Yami, but you have to understand that the spanking is a terribly outdated, and even a dangerous tool for punishing one's children."

.

"He said _that_?"  Solomon was incredulous.

"Yes," Yami agreed, sensing the man's shared frustration.  "He told me that it is a scientifically proven fact that children who are spanked by their parents are more likely to commit crimes as adults, because of negligent and cruel upbringings."

The older man laughed out loud.  "Nonsense.  I'll bet you anything, Yami, that this Doctor Kei what's-his-face has never raised children of his own, or if he has, they have become insolent, disobedient brats."

"I only assume as much," he replied.

"You know, it's new age hodge-podge like this that churns out teen pregnancy and high-school shooters.  Children need to be disciplined, and men like this psychologist were never punished by their flower child, hippie parents and grew up thinking they could do whatever they wanted without consequence.  It's why things like drug traffic and child pornography and the abortion rate are rising.  We live in a society without backbone or moral standards and it disgusts me."

Solomon paused for breath, bewildered amusement in his features.  "I've been raising children, and a grandson, for the better part of my life.  My son received his share of spankings when he was a child, my daughter was better behaved, but not perfect.  And you best believe Yugi had plenty of spankings when he was younger, too—and many of them delivered by yours truly.  He survived them all and he's a wonderful kid."

Yami smiled.  "You raise wonderful children."

"I had help," Solomon retorted playfully and sighed.  "No, the spanking is the only real physical—and usually the last—form of punishment that exists.  Not a real hard whack or anything to leave a bruise—and I never used a belt—but a firm swat to let him know who's boss of the house, and what he's done is bad and he's not going to get away with it.  Without that, it's empty threats.  None of this taking privileges away, like TV, or the phone, or the internet, but real time out from play and entertainment to explain to him why he's been punished and what you expect from him in the future, and I guarantee he will have higher respect for you, because he knows who makes the rules, and he knows he can feel safe in that authority.  If children realize they are more powerful than their parents, their world crashes down because their rearing is up to them, and they are truly alone."  He took a breath.

"You're incredible, Solomon."

They regarded each other, smiling, for a moment.  "Well I suppose," the older man chuckled, and sighed again.  "You've set the rule down for him, and if he ever breaks it again, you have the authority to punish him.  Don't be swayed by this Freudian crap.  Your son's discipline is up to you, as his father, and you have an obligation to him to keep him in line when he acts out.  I know you'll do fine."

.

It was afternoon, and Yami was folding the laundry.  He'd been half-expecting it the last few days when Solomon finally confronted him mid-towel. 

"You might want to see Yugi's latest work," he said, "under his desk."  He had, that afternoon, been picking up toys in the boy's room, an activity Yami wished to discourage, but with which Solomon insisted helping.  Helping, meaning _he_ would pick up toys while Yugi escaped to watch television.

Yami left his chore and found the new drawing, a stick figure and rocket ship and swords.  Completely meaningless scribbles meant only to rebel.  Yami guessed Kei would explain it stood for something obscure and ludicrous—that it signified Yugi's dream of conquering space or some such drivel.

He'd had enough.

"Yugi," he said sternly, softly, and only once as soon as he reached the living room.  The boy knew the tone was serious, and he turned to meet his father's eyes.  Something there told him what was coming next. 

"Yes, daddy?"

"Come with me."

He obeyed instantly, head down as if awaiting his sentence.

"What is this," Yami asked when they were in his room and in front of the drawing, which was plain to see now that he'd moved the desk aside.

Yugi's eyes fell, and he didn't answer.

"I asked you a question," Yami demanded.

Down the hall, Solomon listened with rapt attention, but again, there came no reply.

"Yugi, I told you not to color on the wall.  I asked you if you understood me, and you said 'yes'.  Now you disobey me, and you do not answer my question," he illustrated carefully, with deliberate slowness, so that his son would hear every word as clearly as the last.  "Why did you disobey me, Yugi?"

The boy swallowed, looked up from under his tense brow, his lips pursed.

A chill of unfamiliarity ran down Yami's spine as he realized Yugi was _glaring_ at him.  "Take the look off your face," he instructed, his tone suddenly lower than before.

Yugi's chest heaved, his posture ripe with defiance.  "No," he growled, and made a move to bolt for the door.

Yami was stung with disbelief for a moment, but it was no moment long enough to let Yugi from his sight, and with impossible speed, he cut the boy off and grabbed him firmly by the shoulders.  "You _will_ _not_ run from me when I am speaking to you," he said, and the fear flashed in Yugi's eyes.  "For your disobedience, and your rudeness to me, you are going to get a spanking."

The words left his mouth before he had time to think of what they meant—he was about to _spank_ Yugi, a thing he never really thought he'd have need to do—and here he was, bending a struggling boy over his knee, and suddenly a voice whispered doubt in the back of his mind, _you are no better than that man_.

That man, meaning _the _man.

Yami ignored it—he'd already said the words, and if he went back on them now, he'd be a liar.  Empty threats.

_I love you, Yugi.  I do this because I love you._

He swallowed—hard—and shut his eyes tight as his hand came down across Yugi's backside.  And in that moment, the struggling, and the squealing, and all of the protesting ceased, and silence rushed in to fill the space left by the sound of Yami's hand against the boy's buttocks.

"Now," Yami said finally, quietly, "I want you to stay here in your room and think about why I had to punish you."  He then stood and disentangled himself from his son, who yielded to his efforts and lay there on the floor, and the sobs came to him in the trembling, and the knot in his throat, and Yami closed the door as he left.

Yami's knees were giving way, and he only hoped he made no sound as wetness began flowing down his cheeks in tears he hadn't known were there.  The floor of the hallway met him when he lowered himself to regain his steadiness.  The voice was echoing the same doubts, and he held desperately to the idea that he was _helping_ Yugi, not hurting him—not inflicting pain in him without purpose and leaving him to cry on the floor like _him_.  Him, meaning _the man_.

His eyes slammed shut again.

I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing. 

Solomon was beside him now, laying a hand on his shoulder.  "It's okay," he whispered.

"I…_struck_ him," Yami breathed.

The old man's voice was gentle and comforting.  "No, he's okay.  You'll see.  You'll go in there and he's going to be just fine."

Yami shook his head in denial.  "No, he'll resent me."

"He will _not_ resent you, Yami," Solomon explained.  "Give him a moment."

.

The room was quiet as he entered.  Yugi lay exactly where he'd been left, but there were no more sobs left in him, and he was quiet.  Yami lowered himself very carefully to sit on the floor beside his son.

"Yugi," he whispered.

After a slight hesitation, the boy raised himself up to sit, tear tracks on his face.

"Yugi, do you understand why I had to punish you?"

He swallowed, and his voice was scratchy when he said, "I disobeyed."

"And?"

Yugi sighed, ragged, the telltale sign of a good long cry.  "I didn't answer you when you asked me a question, and I was rude to you, and I tried to run away."

He was a wonderful kid.

"Okay," Yami said.  "I want you to clean the drawing off the wall, and then you can play again."

Yugi looked pitiful.  "Okay," he agreed reluctantly, sensing there would be more discipline should he not comply.  Hesitation again.  "Daddy," he asked, tears returning to his eyes, his lower lip quivering, "are you mad at me?"

Yami studied his face.  "I am a little disappointed in you, yes," he explained.  "But I'm not _mad_.  I could never be angry with you—only frustrated.  I expect better behavior from you, honey."

"I'm sorry," the boy cried, the stab of regret strong in his chest.  Every child understands that anger is a passionate emotion and therefore passes quickly.  To have your father say he is _disappointed_ in you is far worse—it implies there is something about yourself that must be changed, not some various circumstance with which your father is angry.

"I know," Yami replied, reaching out to wipe away his son's tears.  "And I forgive you."

Yugi sniffled and threw himself suddenly into his father's arms.  "I love you daddieeeeeee," he wailed enthusiastically.

Biting back his own tears, Yami hugged him back.  He knew then for sure—they would be okay.  He would have to be tough sometimes, but all would work out in the end, no one would stay mad at anyone, and things would be okay. 

"I love you too, honey." 


	9. the nature of several infatuations

I love books written to no one—the books that actually tell you not to read them, to put them down and walk away. I will respect an author who writes to no one far beyond an author who appeals to massive crowds. I love the obscure groups no one's heard of. I love the imported music that's seemed to play in the background of my life. I am quite content to be alone, and I find I am happiest on my own, and I don't care what people think of me, even when I feel desperately lonely—let them stare, let them _gawk_, and judge me, and tell me I'm wrong, and tell me I should be more like them—well you know _what_, I don't care, I don't want your life, because it _sucks_, because it's not my life. I am happy with who I am and what I stand for and the work I create, and even if it smells like shit to you, you can hold your nose as you pass by, because it's MINE.

.

.

.

The playground in the park was Yugi's newest fixation, and he therefore found no end of excuses to visit. Each outing there awarded him several new friends, none of whose names he remembered, and few of whom he ever encountered again. This time it was JacobandAshley, next time it might be SimonandLaura—it made little difference. In the world of children, friends are friends whether they're lifelong confidants, or boon companions from daycare. Yugi had a lot of friends.

"Yours is the one on the slide?"

Yami was not entirely interested in small talk with the other parents—all mothers in their early thirties with whom he shared no common interest. The only reason he'd come along was for Yugi's protection and safe escort home.

"I can see the family resemblance."

Begrudgingly, Yami entertained the woman with a thin smile. "Is it that noticeable," he asked softly, at which she laughed with a voice of amber sunlight and honey like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. Overworked housewife looking to indulge herself in somewhat greener grass.

"Mine's the blonde—Ashley."

"She's beautiful," Yami commented absently.

"Oh, thank you." The woman was beaming proudly. "This is her favorite playground. We come every Tuesday after violin lesson and before ballet. And you?"

Yami shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Homemaker. Homeschooler. Future soccer mom with a house and 2.5 children and a golden retriever and SUV. She could never dream of relating to him. "He likes the swing set," he explained reluctantly.

Sensing some reservation in his answer, the woman fell silent for a moment, observing the play of their children. At length, she asked, "He's not a normal boy, is he?"

Yami froze. What could this woman possibly know? Maybe she only thought she understood. Maybe she'd recognized Yugi's too-old-for-playground proportions, and the somewhat abandoned expression in his eyes, and assumed he was slow, or had Down syndrome or something of the sort.

"You can tell at that age," she continued, as if the topic were perfectly appropriate, "those who think differently from the others...like my Ashley. I can tell your boy is very bright. Gifted. The parents can always tell."

Just great. This woman obviously thought she'd given birth to a female Mozart, and all she wanted in conversation was to glorify herself and place her daughter on a pedestal. It was very difficult for Yami to keep the cynicism from his voice. "Oh yes. My boy is very bright." And it wasn't a lie. "You are quite observant."

The woman smiled, then some puzzlement came into her voice, "Although," she said, "you don't seem quite the proper age to be his father."

Yami said nothing, set his jaw.

"How old _is_ your son?"

He looked her directly in the eye, only once, and smiled in faint amusement. Seeming at first to be avoiding the question, he stood from the bench, at the last moment directing over his shoulder to her, "He's fifteen."

Whatever reaction she had to this, he did not see, for he called firmly to his boy, in a soft and sure voice not possibly loud enough to cut through the general noise but yet, sure enough, Yugi directed his attention at once to his father—as if the communication had been received telepathically—and obeyed Yami's command of, "Say goodbye to your friends, it's time to go home."

.

"Daddy, where do Joey and Tristan and Bakura and Tea—and Serenity—go all day?"

"Eat your Cheerios, honey," Yami chuckled.

"But where do they _go_?"

"They go to school—you know that."

The boy silently poked his spoon around in the mush at the bottom of his bowl. "But what do they do there," he asked.

"Well...they learn things like math, and history—and things about literature. And they take tests to see how many of their lessons they remember—Now your Cheerios are soggy. Yugi—we can't keep throwing away food you hardly touch."

He mumbled something in apology and tried to choke down a spoonful of the cereal.

"Nevermind, sweetheart, just don't pour so much next time."

Yugi was silent for a while. "Why can't I got to school," he asked.

Yami considered it a valid point. "Do you _want_ to go to school?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then I'll make some calls, okay? We'll see. And in the meantime, please clear your dishes from the table."

.

Solomon had helped him locate the phone numbers he'd need—and the superintendent or principal or whoever he was took some convincing, but Yugi would be allowed back into the system after taking a placement test. He tested out at the third grade level—not exactly six year-old material—perhaps he was making progress, but Yami pinned no hopes on it.

School seemed to be going well, and after several weeks of Yami walking him home, Yugi asked if he could please make the trip on his own from now on. Yami's first response was a stern, "Never," considering his fear of a repetition of the events of Yugi's last walk home. Solomon talked to him gently—it was a tender subject for both—but the grade school campus was considerably closer to the house than the high school, and the elder Mutou insisted that Yugi craving freedom was a good thing.

"I don't like it, Solomon," Yami had argued. "I just can't have faith in the common man anymore. I will not trust traffic to stop at the crossings or strangers to mind their distances."

"It's two blocks away," the old man had reasoned. He finally won the disagreement, as was his usual tendency, after much deliberation on Yami's part. He couldn't help feeling the whole thing was just an invitation for something to go terribly wrong...

.

"Hold still." Tea was giggling.

It was the weekend—a break for all from the dogged expectations of school and homework—and the whole gang had decided to visit their friend, who had many new stories to share with them concerning recess and teachers, and the cruel antics of the fourth grade bullies. They were all very delighted to hear, and eventually settled into rotations of play, and watching television, and half-hearted studying.

Joey had broken away some time ago to help in the shop alongside Solomon, who insisted he return to his friends, but the young man would have none of it. Now Tea also managed to not only break away from the others, but also bring Yami with her. She had claimed he needed to "take a rest from playing mom," but once she had him alone, she realized to her shock that her more subconscious self had intentions of its own. Somehow, still unbelieving, she'd found herself joking with Yami, laughing with him—and actually making him laugh, too—when something had possessed her to exclaim, "You know, I'll bet you look great with eyeliner."

Now, it is generally every girl's fantasy to have her crush entirely at her mercy, which is where she inexplicably found Yami—slave to her immediate will. She was still unsure of how she'd talked him into allowing her to apply eyeliner to his lower lids, but there she was, gratefully not trembling as she held his chin in one hand and traced the line just under his lashes with the liner pencil in her other hand.

"Hold still," she repeated, thrilled by the amused laughter in the back of his throat. "No, keep your eyes open—like that." His lashes were so dark and full, and suddenly staring directly into his impossibly purple orbs like liquid flowers became too much for her, and she blushed, hoping he wouldn't notice. "There," she said finally, though her hand for some reason stayed upon the line of his jaw, his eyes suddenly darker and more urgent from the newly applied makeup, and was it only the makeup that made it appear so, or had his expression turned as serious as hers?

"You look...really good," she remarked distantly, aware she'd begun to shiver. "Wow."

His eyes searched hers, something in them she couldn't quite read—had he intended this? She felt a hand on her waist—a tentative touch—and to her horror she found it was pushing her away. Gently, so small a motion it was barely perceptible, so as not to embarrass her while at the same time, make his message unmistakably clear.

Stupid. She scolded herself and stepped away, flashing him a big smile to play off her disappointment. "You should wear it more often."

He grinned his response, and they fell silent, the pause between them not so much uncomfortable as it was guarded. Some things were going to be said, and the two were mature enough to accept this.

"Hey, listen," Tea began, unsure of herself but tired of putting it off. "Yami...I've always really liked you," she said, feeling obvious like some pig-tailed middle-schooler. "And I know that you deal with a great amount of stress. I can't imagine what that's like, to live your life for someone else—you're the most selfless person I've ever known, and I really admire you. And I don't want to offer to be...you know, what takes the edge off for you, but...I don't know." She tucked her hair behind her ear, ashamed that she couldn't seem to explain exactly what she meant. "All I'm saying," she continued, "is that you're a really nice guy, and I see you do so much for Yugi, and I just thought—you know, if you ever want to be...selfish...sometime, then maybe we could go out for dinner or something. Just an offer."

Yami took a long look at the girl, his expression unreadable. Under any other circumstances, her humble good looks and kind spirit would have attracted him long before her intentions had been voiced. Things being as they were, however, he had not allowed himself any time or attention for such matters as romance—a fact he knew was unlikely to change. "Tea," he began gently to let her down, "you are a very nice girl."

She suddenly covered her mouth as if she'd heard herself utter something rather embarrassing, and wished now to take back her words. "Oh," she said, "I'm such a fool."

He moved as if to stop her from walking away. "No, please understand, my answer has nothing to do with your desirablility. You are a remarkable young woman, and any man should consider himself lucky to be in your favor, but as flattered as I am, I fear I cannot return your feelings." He paused. "That is not to say I do not want to. All of my time and affection is already spoken for—Yugi needs me, and I have made it a priority to be with him. You see, I cannot possibly share my heart with you—or any girl—when it wholly belongs to my son. To attempt to do so would be to divide my attention from him, and he doesn't deserve that. And neither do you," he explained softly. "You deserve someone who can give you his undivided affection, and I'm sorry, Tea, but I cannot be that man."

She was staring at him blankly, some small part of her life now over. Anyone who's been rejected will recognize the look—all your newest, most vivid hopes and desires freshly dashed by the one person you were convinced would never seek to harm you in any way. The end of those dreams you thought could come true. Her eyes fell to some fixed point on the floor. "But what about you, Yami," she asked finally. "Everything you do in Yugi's interest is well and good, but what about you? Are you not also entitled to happiness?"

It struck Yami like a bucket of cold ice. For a moment, he wondered, but then, "My happiness is in him. I find joy in his well-being, contentment in his laughter." He paused to gain his words, to place his meaning delicately. "That is not to say I don't sometimes...long...for a certain kind of companionship. And sometimes the desire for that companionship...wears strongly on my heart. But it is not a want I would ever ask Yugi to satisfy, and my seeking it elsewhere...would deprive Yugi of a measure of my attention that he well deserves."

Tea was lost for words for a long moment. At length, she nodded solemnly, in defeat. "That's why I like you," she said quietly. "You're so noble. Yugi's really lucky."

He gave her a small smile. "Thank you."

.

The rocking chair was in his room! Yugi had been told by his grandfather that if he cleaned up his room he would get a surprise. The boy had honestly expected some candy, not the pretty rocking chair from upstairs in the attic.

Yami was taken aback at the sight as well. "Solomon, how did you manage to get that thing down here," he asked.

The old man winked and replied mysteriously, "I found something of my former strength." Putting a hand to his lower back he added, "And I'll be paying for it for the next few weeks."

"Grampa," Yugi exclaimed, jumping up and down by the arm of the chair, "thank you so much!"

"You're most welcome, my boy. I'll have to replace the cushion in the seat, but it'll do for now," he replied. "Perhaps you'd like to give it a test run?"

Yugi found his father's eyes for approval, which he received there in fond abundance. Squealing with delight, he hopped into the chair, his feet just touching the floor. He began to swing his legs vigorously, but without coordination, earning the slightest of rocking motions.

Yami was beside himself—amused and delighted—that his boy could be so consumed with joy over the most insignificant thing.

Solomon caught the look, studied Yugi's childlike elation, his mind working out some scheme he'd been planning from the moment he hauled his late wife's rocking chair down from the attic. "Why don't you get your father to help you out?"

"Please, daddy?"

Those eyes...

Yami smiled, already unable to refuse. "All right. Just for a while, then you need to get ready for bed."

Yugi squirmed out of the chair, making way for his father, who sat feeling awkward—he'd never made use of a rocking chair before. The feeling of awkwardness increased as the boy climbed into his lap. Yami was, in reality, not much larger than Yugi himself, maybe a foot taller or so, but for whatever reason—whether the boy's childish mannerisms made him seem smaller, or whether he was naturally such size and had always tried to appear larger so as not to be picked on—when he was curled possessively against Yami's chest, the two fit together as if made for this exact moment.

The awkwardness eased, replaced by a warm, familiar comfort. This moment was perfect. Yami found himself instinctually flexing the correct muscles of his legs at the right time and with just enough momentum to push off with his toes and keep up a steady rocking motion.

Yugi sighed deeply against him, so close to being lulled to sleep by the nearness of his father—the warmth, the completeness, the peace. Only one detail was amiss. The silence. "Daddy, sing me a song?"

Yami glanced sharply at Solomon, who had chuckled and was now sitting on the edge of the nearby bed. "Honey, I don't know any songs," he explained, flustered under the impression the older Mutou had been planning this.

"Sing me anything," Yugi mumbled against Yami's shirt.

He searched his recollection—there were few songs he'd ever heard, how could he possibly remember any of them? "I don't know, baby," he said, and as the words fell from his mouth, they tripped some switch in his mind, recalled some vague little tune, and he began to sing. "Baby mine, don't you cry," he whispered, the slightest rumor of melody in his strong voice.

Yugi nuzzled even closer to him, if that were at all possible, unable to keep his eyes open for the lullaby of his father's voice resonating deeply in his chest.

Yami was all mush inside. "Baby mine, dry your eye," he sang softly. "Rest your head close to my heart. Never depart, baby of mine." To his own surprise, he found he could carry the tune quite effortlessly—he had never tried his voice at song before, and he admitted he was rather good. "Little one, when you play, pay no heed what they say. Let those eyes sparkle and shine. Never a tear, baby of mine."

Yugi was lost there in his arms and the tender softness of his familiar voice, the rest of the world having melted away. Against his ever-active nature, Yugi was falling asleep.

"All those same people who scold you," Yami sang on, his hands roving slowly and affectionately down Yugi's back, along his arms, "what they'd give just for the right to hold you. From your head down to your toes, you're not much goodness knows." The song suddenly became very difficult sing, and his voice faltered. He paused to collect himself, realizing there were tears in his eyes. "But you're so precious to me," he said, the tune somehow escaping him as only the words seemed important anymore, and the last line was uttered in a whisper almost too soft to decipher, as if meant only for the ears of his sleeping son. "Sweet as can be, baby of mine."

Long moments of silence filled in where Yami's voice had been before, and a hush fell over the room. Finally, Yami said, "Has he always been this..."

"Loveable? Endearing," Solomon offered. "Oh yes...since he was a baby."

Yami paused, a light switching on in his head. "Of course," he said. "You were there in the beginning. Through his childhood. You were very lucky..."

"No luckier than you," the old man explained. "Sure I was there when he was young...but you're here now. You get to share something very special with him, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit jealous...that he chose you."

"You must resent me terribly, Solomon."

The elder Mutou sighed. "No," he replied. "At first I was rather suspicious of you. I had no idea who you were or what you wanted—you just showed up in my grandson's life and began to change him. But I've gotten to know you...to trust you. I know your character now, and I'm not afraid of you taking advantage of him in any way. I trust you...with his life," he said. "You're a good person, Yami."

Another long pause while he struggled with some revelation. "I don't deserve this," Yami said at last.

"What's that?"

"Him. This," he demonstrated, hugging Yugi loosely so as not to wake him. "I don't deserve something so wonderful as his affection. I love him, Solomon." He faltered. "I am so taken with him. I am...smitten. I am undone," he admitted. "I'm in love."

"I know. It's so easy to love him, isn't it? But to earn his love in return...takes a very special person," Solomon explained. "Oh, and the way he loves you..."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," he chuckled. "He is so fond of you. He idolizes you in a way, you know...the way he wants to be everything that you are. I'm lucky to get two words out of him with the same kind of...unbridled admiration that he shows you."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," Solomon said. Then, in amusement, "You might say I am the poor player who has fretted his hour on the stage. This is the part when I bow out gracefully. I've had my time in his life, and the person he needs the most right now is you. I'm not sorry at all."

Yami mulled this over. "I don't want anything bad to happen to him," he said quietly. "I never did."

"Neither did I," he agreed with gentle finality. "But we'll survive. He's in good hands."

Yugi breathed deeply in his sleep, the joints of the old rocking chair creaked slightly in protest of their combined weight, and Yami whispered, "Solomon."

"Yes?"

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

"No, my dear boy," the old man laughed "Thank _you_."


	10. the negative influence of public school

Who am I kidding? Who do I think I am, writing all of this down like I know what I'm talking about, like it's my right, like anyone cares? I'm glad my family doesn't read anything I write. I'm glad they're uninvolved, uninterested. I shouldn't be wasting my time with all of this endless drivel. I am stealing words from a father who _has_ been there. I am stealing situational drama from a woman I know. I am stealing situational drama from a woman I used to trust. She betrayed me. I am writing it all down here like someone really gives a damn. It isn't my place—who the hell do I think I am?

{(chapter ten)}

Yami, having spent the weekday mornings alone as of late—and having despised every moment of the solitude—had busied himself around the house with mindless, obligatory tasks. It was in the middle of one of these on a particular early afternoon that it happened. Yami, having spent every moment away from Yugi in crippling fear, knew something was wrong as soon as the phone rang.

"Hello," he answered tersely.

"Yes, hello," a woman replied, not attempting to keep the urgency from her voice. "Are you the father of a young boy—he says his name is Yugi?"

"What's wrong?"

"God, I'm sorry—I just hit him with my car."

Yami sprinted the distance to the intersection where the woman on the phone had directed him, but there wasn't much to see. Yugi was sitting on the sidewalk, and he appeared to be fine. The woman, on the other hand, seemed a nervous wreck. "I'm so sorry," she said again as he approached.

"What happened?"

"Oh, he just stepped right out in front of me. I was pulling out from a complete stop, you see, so I didn't hit him very hard—just nudged him, really, but he fell. Oh, gosh, I didn't know whether to call an ambulance first or his parents—I'll pay for any medical bills—I'm so sorry, I could have sworn I had a green light."

Yami nodded at length and sighed heavily, as if it all made sense to him now. "You did," he said softly. Then, kneeling to Yugi, "You weren't paying attention, were you, honey?"

The boy's expression was blank—still in off-mode and a little shaken. "I don't..."

"Try to remember," Yami instructed. "Was the cross light red for you to stop? This is so important, you have to remember."

Yugi trembled, obviously somewhere else in his mind. "I don't know," he said at last, and his voice was small.

"Are you hurt?"

The gears were turning behind his eyes, cataloging every minor ache or discomfort. There was one that seemed to be more dire than the rest, and it burned at his elbow—the right elbow—which he lifted emphatically for his father's inspection. "Ouch," he said softly.

Yami took the boy's arm gently in his hands to study the long, grazing cut and patch of already drying blood. Undoubtedly a sign of his sudden, forceful connection with the concrete, it was no mortal wound and would be quickly forgotten after a thorough application of rubbing alcohol and a medicinal dose of ice cream and afternoon cartoons. "You'll be all right," Yami concluded. "But you have lost the privilege of walking home from school by yourself. I will accompany you from now on."

Yugi's expression fell.

"This doesn't mean that I am mad at you," Yami went on hastily, sensing the question before it was even asked. "I am a little frustrated—you need to pay attention to what's going on around you. It was this woman's turn to go, but you ignored the cross light and got hurt. So I'm sorry, honey, but I'll have to walk with you to and from school from now on. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy." That rumor of tears which broke Yami's heart.

"I'm so sorry," the woman repeated, beside herself with guilt.

"There was no real harm done," Yami told her, standing to his full height again. "At least none I can see. I would like to get your information for future reference—just in case he has whiplash or something of the sort, though I doubt it."

"Of course." She turned back to her car to search for the necessary pen and paper, but stopped herself before she'd reached the door. "I must say," she said, turning again to meet Yami's eyes. "You're handling this remarkably well. At least I know if it had been one of my children...I would be livid—were I in your shoes. This is exactly the kind of thing I'm afraid of." She shook her head self-disapprovingly. "Senseless drivers. It's one of the reasons I decided to home-school my children as soon as they're old enough. I don't like the idea of entrusting them to strangers or having them outside of my sight all day. The thought of public school makes me sick. Oh, listen to me go on—I'm just so shaken up."

"It's all right," Yami replied. "He has survived worse. He'll be all right."

"I just feel awful."

"The fault was not entirely yours," he assured her. "Yugi tends to become easily distracted. It's difficult for him to set his mind to one thing and see it through—even a think as simple as walking home from school." Yugi glanced numbly in his direction.

"—And he gets into trouble because of it," the woman offered.

Yami stared at her. Could it be..."Yes," he agreed—someone else understood.

"Schools have no one-on-one teacher-to-student interaction," she went on, as if she perfectly understood, as if she were plucking the concerns right out of Yami's mind before he'd even put them into words, "and all the curriculum is structured for a group environment. There is no special consideration for children with dyslexia or attention deficit disorder, and any unfortunate soul with such a condition is immediately labeled a troublemaker, or misfit, and placed in the back of the classroom—and as soon as a young child is given a label, he will indefinitely assume that label and be slave to the mindset that he is no better than a troublemaker, or a misfit, and it's deplorable."

"Yes," he said at length, realizing in some part of his mind that he and the woman must have had a lot in common as parents. She seemed perfectly level-headed, protective, cautious, loving—and if she also noted obvious flaws in the system and therefore opted to keep her children out of public school, maybe Yami's own fears and misgivings were not wholly baseless. "That's why," he mused softly to himself, and at the woman's slightly confused expression, continued, "I think the reason why this happened today, is so I could encounter another parent who feels the same way about the school system. I know now there is someone else with such hesitations as I have, and were I to withdraw him from his classes, I would not be remiss."

The woman gave him a warm little smile—to let him know they were on the same level—that briefly, in that one moment, the world had condescended to allow them both to understand something of each other.

{(pagebreak)}

Yami stared at his son, at more than a loss for words, a bit amused but mostly surprised. Of all the requests in the world, his boy had to come up with this one. "Yugi," he said gently, "earrings are for little girls."

"Joshua at school has one." The kid was adamant. "He's in the fifth grade, and everyone thinks he's really cool."

"And you think if you get an earring, you'll be 'cool' as well?"

Yugi's brow furrowed, as if he were thinking deeply about it. As if it hadn't occurred to him before. He was incredible actor, but he was fooling no one. "Well, Joshua's got a lot of friends, because everyone wants to be near him, and because he plays the drums."

"Young man, you are _not_ going to play drums."

"I don't want to play the drums," he protested zealously. "I want to get my ear pierced. Please?"

Yami sighed, glanced across the dinner table at Solomon for council, finding it rather ironic that the elder Mutou could be so opinionated about medical treatment, and yet remain ambivalent in so many other issues. The old man was grinning. "I don't know," he said. "He asked you."

Yami tried to convince himself it was a bad idea, that it was rebellious and distasteful and that he should forbid it at all costs. But then...it wasn't exactly rebellion—Yugi just thought it looked cool, and who was Yami to prevent him from expressing himself in something as harmless as an earring? After all, Yami noted against his will, it wouldn't look half bad on Yugi. An earring would add to the gothic punk style, which so clashed with Yugi's gentle personality that one had no choice but to recognize it as pretense, and adore the boy all the more for his blissful naivety.

"Pleeeeease, daddy?"

_Ra help me, the eyes._

"Okay," he heard himself say, still in disbelief, and watched the expression on his son's face slowly change from pleading to overjoyed, as realization hit him.

"Thank you, daddy," he exclaimed, dashing suddenly from his seat to throw himself into Yami's arms in a possessive hug.

Yami smiled and pat him on the back. "It's your grandfather you ought to be thanking—he's the one who'll be paying for it."

Obediently, Yugi broke of his ministration there and bounded next into an eagerly accepted hug with Solomon. "Thank you, Grampa!"

The old man laughed heartily. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's clean up these dishes and leave now or else the mall will be closed," he said, and before Yami really had time to let it sink in, they had called a taxi and left the shop, and he presently found himself pacing beside the small kiosk where Yugi sat anxiously fidgeting and Solomon filled out compulsory paperwork.

Yami watched his boy wriggle in the seat when asked to pick out the stud he wanted. Yami mused silently to himself there as he watched, that Yugi's birthday was not far off, and he would be sixteen. This child writhing in joyous anticipation was not a child at all but a teenager, full of hormones and future dreams, so close to adulthood, so close to college and the job force. Soon he would be grown up and have no need of Yami. Soon he would leave and the grown-up world would have him, and where could there possibly be room in his life for a wandering spirit—he would be so spent on education and career and a family of his own. But it was entirely too depressing a thought, and Yami dismissed it from his mind out of necessity.

Yugi was demonstrating to the kiosk lady where on his ear he wanted his brand new piercing—very high in the cartilage—and in the _right_ ear. That much was very important. The right ear. "Are you sure," the woman asked him. "It'll hurt that high up."

"Yes," he answered. "I'm sure."

And so Yami stood there and watched, dimly aware of the several passers-by who'd paused to see the brave little kid, as the lady took the small, white piercing gun to Yugi's ear, softly commanded, "Take a deep breath," and squeezed firmly and finally the silver trigger. Yami could have sworn he heard the sound of the post connecting with the back of the earring, even over the various noise of the mall, and Yugi's reaction was instant. There was a crease in his brow, a sharp exhalation, and an instinctual tearing in his eyes, but there was not the expected crying, or complaint of pain. The boy was too excited about surveying himself in the offered mirror to dwell on the momentary stab of discomfort. A big smile upturned the corners of his mouth, and he immediately sought out his father's consent.

Though he was pleased with the outcome of this excursion, Yami was still troubled, and to his surprise he couldn't quite place the feeling. Perhaps it stemmed from the sudden impression that Yugi was slowly growing out of his control, that Yami wanted to always consider him a small child, when in truth the boy was closer to independence than childhood, this endless fear of reaching the extent of your purpose on the earth, the selfish longing to hold onto the things that make you important, and Yami never wanted to let him go. Maybe it was the effect of peer pressure on Yugi, the thought that other people had control in his life—this adult expression of sensuality—that was so uncharacteristic of his precious perfect Yugi, that Yami found so unsettling. Or a combination of everything.

Whatever the reason, Yami struggled to push the feeling aside and return an echo of the smile given him.

_Cherish this moment._

{(pagebreak)}

"Daddy, a girl at school tried to kiss me."

Yami stared at him. "Where?"

"On top of the monkey bars."

It could have been funny. He didn't laugh. "No. Which part of you did she try to kiss? Your mouth?"

"Cheek."

"What did you do?"

Hesitation. "I moved the other way."

"Why didn't you tell a teacher?"

He was fidgeting. "I didn't want her to get in trouble."

"Honey, if someone is trying to touch you in a way you don't want, it's okay to tell someone, even if it means that person will get into trouble, since they probably deserve it. Do you remember when we talked about the different kinds of touching, and how you can tell the difference?"

"Well, yeah...but it wasn't really like that. There was nothing hurting in her wanting to kiss me. She just likes me a lot, but I don't like her in a kissing way." He paused. "She didn't want to hurt me, and I didn't want to get her in trouble."

Inconceivable. The father learning a lesson from the son. Yami asked himself if he wouldn't have acted in the same fashion. If, for instance, Tea had tried to kiss him... "Yugi, honey, what would you have done if she had been someone you liked in a kissing way?" This was important.

"But I _don't_ like her in a kissing way."

Yami sighed. "Okay, but isn't there someone you _do_ like in a kissing way?"

More fidgeting. "Yes."

"So what if whoever it is you like in a kissing way had been there instead, and had tried to kiss you, what would you have done?"

Hesitation again. He suddenly looked much older than his alleged six years. "I would have let her."

Yami frowned at him. "Honey, this is very serious. You need to be careful." A pause. "Who is it that you like in a kissing way?"

He glanced away shyly. "Serenity."

{(pagebreak)}

Yami had grown accustomed at this point to receiving bad news via the telephone, so I cannot say he was entirely surprised when the vice principal rang him one morning. She sounded rather upset, but would not disclose any details over the phone. She did say, however, that there had been some sort of accident, and apparently Yugi had been acting up. Though he found the latter entirely too difficult to believe, he was concerned about what Yugi could have been involved in to cause such a fuss, and he was equally anxious to ensure that his son was okay.

So, he set aside the various tasks of ironing and vacuuming that he'd assigned himself for the day, and quickly made his way to the grade school. After inquiring his way to the office where he'd been told to report—it was not hard to find—he informed the woman at the desk that he'd been contacted by the vice principal and told to come as soon as possible. "Oh," the receptionist said with a an obvious edge of disapproval in her voice, "you're the _father_."

Yami bristled. "Where is my son?"

"Ms. Krenz will be with you in a moment," she rattled off—ignoring his question, he noted—and pressed a button on contraption much resembling a telephone on the desktop. "Ms. Krenz, Mr. Mutou has arrived," she reported in a singsong tone into the device's speaker, and waited.

Yami decided to not contend the surname, and instead seated himself in one of several chairs lining the wall. And he sat there a good five minutes, and when he'd nearly had enough of these peoples' ignorance, a woman in her early fifties, her hair up in tight curls and her thin lips pursed in a tolerant smile emerged from a long corridor. "Mr. Mutou, I presume," she asked, and before he'd given his reply, she continued, "Pleased to meet you."

Yami sensed that she was, on the contrary, not at all pleased. "Ms. Krenz, I presume," he echoed hollowly.

"I'd like to speak with you for a moment, in my office," she intentioned, motioning with a hand for him to follow her down the long hallway and through the door at the far end. There was a desk inside the room, with both a computer and a phone on it, and a green plastic watering can nestled on the floor beside a fake tree in the corner.

"Please sit down," the vice principal instructed, also taking her respective seat behind the desk. After a brief pause of settling in, she began. "Mr. Mutou—"

"—Just Yami will do, if you please."

There was noticeable annoyance in her body language, as if to announce she was quite put off at having been interrupted. "_Yami_," she stressed haughtily. "I fear I must bring attention to the unchecked behavior of—"

"I'm sorry," Yami interjected, stunned by the woman's attitude. "Have I...offended you in some way?"

She pursed her lips. "Not directly," she admitted, "but rather by the lax discipline of that child."

He fought to suppress his rage. "_That child_? What exactly happened, may I ask," he mocked her false regality.

"I was preparing to tell you until I was so rudely interrupted," she defended.

"You could have told me over the phone," he reminded her, his voice rising with his growing impatience, emphasizing each word in the tone that those who knew him well were conditioned to fear, "but you decided to so draw this thing out, I have no choice but to be curt with you, now tell me where my son is."

She stared at him, stricken with horror, it would seem. "Your son," she replied, "made a scene in class. He was disobedient and stubborn and had to be physically removed."

"What happened," he asked slowly, to make sure she didn't miss any part of his request, an obvious insult, but he was tired of skirting around it.

"The boy interrupted his writing class and was insistent upon being granted a restroom break."

Yami understood now. "Thoth give me strength," he whispered under his breath, rubbing his jaw in an effort to keep from lashing out at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

He ignored her. "He was denied, I assume," he asked, already sure in his mind of the truth.

"Well, yes," Ms. Krenz agreed. "He was in the middle of Mrs. Rhefeldt's writing class, and she had made it perfectly clear that she was not to be interrupted during her lectures. And besides, all of the children are allowed a bathroom break directly after lunch—your boy is merely impatient and spoiled."

"_Excuse_ me?"

"He _defecated_ on himself," she exclaimed, openly disgusted and outraged. "I would have thought he'd have the common sense and decent humanity to _control_ himself, but obviously—"

"—You have _no_ idea," Yami said forcefully, standing suddenly to his full height, "what he's been through. Things that other children take for granted do not come so easily to him, and he has worked very hard to understand the signals his body gives him and what they mean, and by denying him something so basic, you fly in the face of everything he's learned. You have no right, and I am _appalled_ that you assumed as much!"

The old woman looked as if she'd been struck. "Your son displayed a shocking lack of self control," she argued.

"No kidding—he's got nerve damage." Yami was fuming though a sharp edge of exasperated amusement had crept into his voice. "Honestly, I don't know why I'm surprised at all of this. You know, lady, I was so close to telling you everything. When I enrolled him here, it entered my mind to inform you people of everything he's been through—but you don't _deserve_ that. I don't _want_ you to know. I want you to go on believing whatever the hell it is you believe about Yugi—whether you think he's just stupid or disobedient—it doesn't matter. I don't give a damn about your opinion. Now," he growled, "you are going to tell me where my son is, so help me."

She'd lost. "Th-the nurse's office," she stammered, her ego visibly wounded. Then, straightening herself in an effort to reclaim her dignity, she added in an afterthought, "Where I come from, Mr. _Yami_, women are treated with a measure of grace and respect."

Yami had already turned to leave, having acquired what information he needed, but at her comment, he was oddly inclined to look over his shoulder at her one last time with a mischievous smirk on his face and reply, "And where I come from, women are given as party favors." He hesitated not in slamming the door as he left.

{(pagebreak)}

Unresponsive.

At best.

A part of him had broken inside—that confident part, the self-image part. He knew he could not go back, all of them laughing, dodging him. He could not go back—what would they say? Surely they wouldn't have anything to do with him now. So he shut down. He was happy, in some part of his mind, to see his father finally come for him, and he didn't want to stay in his filth in the nurse's office, but somehow he just couldn't find it within himself to say anything.

"We can go home now, honey."

He was aware in some part of his mind that he cried. And when he stood before his father in the bathroom in his home, and allowed his clothes to be stripped off, and he stood there naked and shivering in his filth, he cried. And while his father's gentle hands were on him, cleaning him with care because he could not help himself, he cried. Those hands were on him, and they didn't mind his filth—it was the helping kind of touch, and it made him feel better.

He was aware that he was lifted, so carefully, and placed in the tub, and he didn't resist, and he didn't respond. There wasn't much water in the bath, but it was warm, and it would help him to feel clean. Yugi hugged his knees as he sat there in the porcelain tub with head hung low, and he said nothing.

"It's okay, honey."

Yami's hands went over him carefully, cupping bathwater along his back to soothe him, pausing to trace the shelf of his ribcage, the jutting, square-ish lines of his shoulder blades. Every part of him perfect and smooth and strong. It was when Yami noticed the bruises. Their dark shadows were just settling into Yugi's upper arms, previews of the blue and purple monsters that were soon to come. Yami covered one experimentally, gently mimicking a motion of grabbing the boy by the arm violently. The mark was a haunting match to his fingers, and Yugi shied from the light touch as if it hurt him.

"Who did this?"

The boy hugged his knees tighter, trying to hide himself, trying to avoid reply as long as possible. When he finally spoke, his voice was small. "Mrs. Rhefeldt," he said, "told me to go to the office, but I didn't want to go, so she had to take me there. She kept saying I was in big trouble, and shaking her head, and she said she was going to tell the principal, and call my parents, except I told her I just have my Daddy, and Grampa, but she wasn't listening." He'd worked himself up at this point, and was crying again, and rested his forehead on his knees to further hide himself.

Yami's fingers were raking through his hairline at the base of his neck. "Yugi, honey, this was not your fault. It was an accident. You tried your best to explain to your teacher, but she didn't understand what you needed. You are not in trouble."

Yugi stirred. "They were all laughing at me," he whispered tearfully, "calling me 'gross.' I yelled at them not to look at me. I didn't want them to see."

Yami brushed long golden bangs behind the boy's right ear, his fingertips lingering on the silver piercing high in the cartilage. Yugi was so brave. "Honey," he said, "I will not make you go back to school if you do not want to, but I will not force you to stay home, either. I will be proud of you, whatever you choose."

He raised his head to look at his father, happy though his expression remained unreadable. A very long silence slipped between them until, at length, some fear passed through Yugi's eyes. "Daddy," he asked, relishing the comfort of his father's strong hands on his back, on his arm, "don't you think it's gross?" Meaning, don't you think _I'm_ gross—the things that come out of me, that you have to clean and wipe away and smell when you're near enough?

Yami looked in his eyes with utmost seriousness while he gathered his reply. "Yugi," he said, absently entwining his fingers in the boy's thick hair, "I think that your body is beautiful, but it's hurt right now and until it heals, days like today are bound to happen. I don't think it's 'gross,' it does not disgust me; it just makes me very sad that you have to go through it all. There is nothing that can come out of you that would make me not want to hold you, help you take a bath, sleep in your bed close beside you—so close you feel me while you dream, and are not afraid. I'm your father. It's my job to take care of you, and because I love you so very much, it is easy for me to do these things for you." He stroked the boy's face affectionately. "Nothing about you is _gross_, sweetheart. You are so beautiful."

Yugi looked up at his father, his chest rising and falling unevenly with the great constriction of impending sobs. Wordlessly, he leaned over the rim of the tub and climbed up Yami's front. He was a little boy then—_Daddy, hold me_—and for the first time in his reign as father, Yami felt no discomfort, no awkwardness, in this intimacy of closing his arms around the small frame. And it was then just as the moment became etched in the minds of the pair. Every lasting detail—the fluorescent lighting in the room, the way Yugi's soft cries and Yami's answering whispers of, "It's okay," echoed off the tiled floor, the faint sloshing of the water in the tub as Yami repositioned himself to better cradle the half-sitting, half-laying boy draped over the wall of the tub and against his chest—every bit was ingrained in their memories as one of the defining moments of their bond. Yugi was wet, and naked, against his father, and he was not ashamed.


	11. for Two Socks, who taught me to dance

I must first make this perfectly plain, to avoid any confusion:

I do not begin to say mine is an unjust God, or an unloving God, or a God blind with rage and vengeance. Mine is the God Who speaks to me in the setting of the sun, in very real words of the glory of His creation. Mine is the God Who worked in miracles and parted seas for His people. Mine is the God Who came down on the mountain, and shielded Moses in the cleft of the rock as He passed by. Mine is the God Who leads nations and infantries into victory, Who rules all things by the might of His hand. Mine is the God Who breathed the Word, to silence disbelief. Mine is the God Who gave His only Son to save sinners, among whom I am chief.

May the works of my hands, the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart be pleasing in Your sight, oh God. Amen.

( )

Some days were just difficult.

At first he thought there was something terribly wrong, and when Solomon didn't know what to do, either, Yami called the psychologist, and told him that Yugi was awake—his eyes were open—and he was fine, but he wasn't responding, he wasn't even moving, what should they do? Kei instructed him not to panic, that as long as the boy wasn't hurt in any way, he would soon come around and start to respond. He said that Yugi was most likely cognizant, but had chosen to shut himself in for whatever reason, and as long as he knew his father was nearby, he would be all right. Perhaps he'd remembered something that shocked him and he needed some time to sort it out, Kei suggested, but it's best not to hope.

He had to be helped in everything. There was nothing he would willfully do on his own, so Yami had to help him dress, and then there really wasn't much to be done. Yami worried terribly for him when he was like that. After the first time it happened, he developed a sort of routine to provide for his son as normal a day as possible. He spoke to Yugi constantly, in a calm voice, as if they were carrying on a normal conversation. He went to some effort to make eye contact, and encourage his boy to play, and eat lunch, and do the things he loved.

It wasn't always so bad. Some days Yugi was just very quiet, and he did get up on his own, and dress, and eat, but he stayed very quiet, and simple things like reading the back of a cereal box were difficult. Reading proved especially difficult, because words would suddenly appear upside down, and backwards, to him and he didn't understand them at all. Sometimes the difficulty came to him in his speech, and he couldn't seem to remember how to turn the thoughts in his head into sentences, and it was very hard for him to talk. It frustrated him, and he would cry about these little things, and Yami would hold him closely and tell him that everything would be okay.

But some days were just difficult, and Solomon would find them on the floor of the living room, or Yugi's bedroom, as if the boy had just collapsed, as if he had decided it was too difficult today, and had given up entirely. Yami begrudgingly allowed this resignation, but he stayed with his son, rubbed his back while he lay catatonic on the floor, ran his fingers through the boy's hair, whispered comforts, and idly traced the scar above Yugi's right temple.

( )

"Yugi, honey, what are you thinking about? Whatever it is, I am here with you. Whatever you are afraid of. We will face it together.

...Yugi?

...You do not have to be afraid, if that's it. You do not have to be afraid of what's inside of you. Is that it? Honey, do you remember? Are you just sad? I know you hear me. I know you are so much smarter than you lead me to believe. Why, then, have you locked away your words so tightly? What is this you keep from me? If you would only tell me, maybe I could help you. I will still love you, whatever you have to say. You don't have to worry about that.

...Yugi?

Honey.

No...you do not have to tell me. That was wrong of me. You can keep it to yourself, for however long you need. I understand. Just know that I am here for you until then—until you are ready to talk to me. I will not leave you."

( )

A fresh chill hung close to the Earth, but the wind was warm and the sun high, and the sky was breaking blue and brilliant between feathery rifts of cirrus clouds. It was a glorious day for a picnic, and so the group of friends had assembled in the park, at a shaded bench tucked into a row of trees overlooking a particular open field of green—a stretch of gently rolling valley that seemed to audibly call children with their dogs and games of freeze tag and soccer. The afternoon moved in all its silent determination to some fixed point of early evening when the cicadas sang high in the trees and the wind blew warm and carried Serenity's kite up, up, up until Tristan had to help her hold it still.

"Someone ought to go make sure he minds his manners," Joey grumbled where he sat with the others.

"That's a good idea," Tea laughed, standing from her seat at the picnic table. "I'll go."

"You don't think I can keep him off my own little sister," Joey asked, trying to sound wounded.

"No, I just think Tristan would listen to reason much better than some empty threat to his manhood," she shot back amusedly over her shoulder before walking out onto the field in the direction of her friends. Yami watched her leave.

The sun made its way toward the western horizon, shadows stretching slowly across the length of the field. The discovery of worms and other stranger bugs in the dirt floor beneath the trees, the jogging couples and their jogging Dalmatians along the paved trails, the enticing scent of barbeque and the sizzling of charcoal grills. Searching for familiar shapes in the wide expanse of clouds. The puddle-wonderful world of children and pretense and sport, but there was one activity to which Yugi was inexplicably drawn, and Yami watched his charge with mildly territorial curiosity.

Bakura was presently involved in some strange and captivating dance, a mixture of Tai Chi and colorguard. He was moving with so much grace and fluidity out there in the sunset, and Yugi couldn't seem to tear himself away. He was deeply entranced by the effortless display, all the various moves and spins his friend executed in second nature, without so much thought as a mathematician carrying out the synthetic division of trinomials. An instant, flawless thought process, a rapid-firing of hands sweeping air and wide, carving movements of the flagpole and the silk.

blá nótt yfir himininn

blá nótt yfir mér

Bakura had been the one to bring a stereo, and its music carried lazily across the field in words Yami didn't understand, some kind of crooning foreign lullaby set to bold piano strokes and the harmonic accord of strings. It was to this sound the boy was moving, choreographing his peculiar dance as the song continued, sweeping the pole largely in the air above his head, the banner of the flag unfurling with his movements, all the while a sly and prided smile on his lips.

breiði mjúku sængina

loka augunum

Bakura was dancing with a flag, every muscle of him tuned in on one distinct angelic channel, glorying in the sunlight and the silent awe of Yugi nearby, whispering unintelligible lyrics, the strong and gentle lines of him poised and perfect, his hair falling about his shoulders in wondrous disarray. His silk never once sailed around the pole, his hands were planted firmly but flexibly on the grip, his knuckles parallel to the sky, his weight distributed evenly and lightly on his feet as he flew.

Yugi was in love.

Yami could see it from a distance, and he was troubled. He knew Yugi to give himself over so completely to an idea, that once he'd made up his mind about something (or someone) he would follow it to whatever end. There was an odd stab of not entirely parental jealousy coursing through Yami—a perhaps selfish instinct to take Yugi by the hand and lead him away from Bakura's flag dancing, away from the park, away from his innocent infatuation with Serenity, away from everything that held any claim on the boy's heart. The realization of this made Yami sick, but he couldn't let go of it. He needed Yugi all to himself, he didn't want to share with anyone, and watching helplessly from across the field at this potential diversion, this obstacle, this predator of Bakura hunting Yugi, teaching him those carving motions now with a makeshift pole, tucking perfect white hair behind his ear, smiling with those British dimples, it was too much for Yami to bear.

"Whoa, if looks could kill..." Yami glanced darkly in Joey's direction, not taking care to reply as the blonde seated himself on the bench. "Who crossed you and how," he asked bluntly after a moment in which Yami hadn't responded, "so I can make it a point to avoid doing the same?"

Yami shifted his weight where he sat but didn't reply, folding his arms across his chest instead. Joey noticed, after coming to the conclusion an answer was not going to be volunteered to him any time soon, that Yami's attention was focused intently on some distant point, and he leaned in to look in the same direction, in hopes of also glimpsing the source of his friend's disagreeable mood. Bakura was showing Yugi how to catch a toss by the middle of the pole. "Ah," Joey mused, withdrawing to his own space, "jealousy."

"It's not jealousy," Yami defended bitterly.

"Then what is it, 'cause it sure as hell isn't friendly."

Yami hesitated. "It's concern," he explained softly.

"About?"

He said nothing.

Joey sighed, his frustration apparent. "Look, do you want to talk about something, or am I wasting my time?"

"Forgive me, Joey," Yami said. "I am...worried...by it. Yugi's obvious high regard for Bakura puts me ill at ease."

Joey's brow creased. "Why would that bother you? Yugi likes everybody."

The words were being carefully shifted around for his reply. "Let's say...it's not the way Yugi looks at Bakura...it's the way Bakura looks back." Yugi was laughing triumphantly out there on the field—he'd caught his first toss.

"What are you talking about? It's Bakura," Joey retorted. "He's not like that."

"How do you know," Yami asked quickly, turning to meet his eyes. "Has he told you?"

Joey thought seriously about it. "Well...no. It's not a common topic of discussion, you know, but I just don't think..." He shook his head. "Listen, whatever Bakura is or is not, he wouldn't take advantage of his friends. He's smarter than that. Just trust him, okay?"

More laughter out there in the sunset and the grass. Yami faltered, torn between reason and his fiercely protective nature. "Serenity," he said rather absently.

"What," Joey snapped, still frustrated and a little put off by this random mention of his sister's name.

"Serenity with her kite," Yami clarified, the poignancy of the example dawning on him suddenly. "And Tristan helped her reign it in. They were alone on the field, and even though Tristan is your friend and you've known him for years, you still felt a protective tug to go separate him from your sister."

"No," Joey objected at once. "You're right, I should be able to trust my friend to behave himself when he's with my sister, that's what you're saying, and I understand, but Tristan has time and time again shown himself to be a hopeless womanizer. He's proven it in his character, you see what I'm saying? So I know it's not a terribly good idea to leave him alone with Serenity, because—the poor guy—if left on his own, he's eventually gonna say something, or do something, that he'll regret, and I don't want to give him that chance. But you have no reason to be suspicious of Bakura. He's always been a good friend, and I think he should have earned your trust by now."

Yami's eyes turned again on the boys in the field, this time with slightly less contempt than before. "I don't know, Joey," he said at last.

"If you can't take my word for it, ask Bakura about it yourself," Joey suggested. "Maybe if he knows you're concerned, he'll back off. I'm sure he never meant for it to seem like he was moving in on Yugi. But if you don't believe me, go talk to him."

Yami nodded at length, dejectedly, although most of him hadn't really been listening. The sting of envy and self-doubt burned in his eyes. Bakura was showing Yugi how to walk on the balls of his feet—not tiptoe—and bounce a little whenever he stepped, so that he could be more agile and move faster to catch a toss. The sun was setting golden, the shadows long and deep across the field.

( )

Yami couldn't sleep. He would have been tossing restlessly, had Yugi not come to his bed earlier. Some nights it was necessary. Other nights he was strong enough, or brave enough, or tired enough to go to sleep on his own, but sometimes he just needed the comforting presence of his father at night. Yami never turned him away. These moments were dear to him, but for some reason he couldn't sleep. The sun-swept image of Yugi and his latest interest dancing with poles and silk and light and laughter filled his vision where he lay in the dark. Something in him knew he would not always be Yugi's center of affection. Something in him knew he was losing control. Something in him knew he'd never had control to begin with. He was terrified. "Help," he whispered aimlessly into the night, into Yugi's hair. "Please. If anyone can hear this. If there is anyone in control. Help me. I cannot do this alone. Please."

Yugi's shape fit against his own so perfectly, his arm tightening subconsciously around the small frame, and he never wanted to leave. "It's not for me," he breathed, careful to keep his voice down as he spoke again to whatever unseen force chanced to be listening. "It's for him. I...I don't want him to hurt anymore. I don't want him to be sad. Please. If you can, take it all away from him. Let me bear it instead. I just want him to be happy. He's all I care about. He's all I have. Please, help him to be safe, and to be well. He...he keeps it all inside—everything that hurts, all those memories—he locks them away deep inside where he lets no one see. It will destroy him. It will consume him slowly if he doesn't let it out...I can't let that happen. I...

"Please. He's just so...he doesn't deserve this. He's never done a thing." Yami swallowed, his throat having suddenly constricted for some reason he didn't understand, his voice now straining past tears. "Why...why would you let this happen to him? Why would you corner me into a position from where I can do nothing—only watch? If only I knew...if I just knew who...I would throw everything away just to _know_. I hate being powerless. I hate...loving something I can't seem to protect. I can't...I can't do it. It's killing me—to know I didn't do anything. To know I can't do anything." His tears were wetting the pillow, so overwhelmed by the crushing fear he was somehow slowly losing Yugi, he didn't notice the movement in his arms. "Please," he was whispering urgently, "if you have the power I can't seem to summon, please help him. Protect him. Guide me. Help. I love him too much..."

Silence rushed to fill in where his words had ended, and he felt so emotionally drained by this apostrophe, that it came as an added surprise when Yugi's voice sounded groggily in the darkness beside him.

"Daddy?"

Yami sighed, inwardly chiding himself for not taking adequate precautions to keep his bitter ramblings from his son's ears. How long had the boy been awake, and how much had he heard?

"Daddy, were you praying?"

He honestly didn't know. Though it had sounded much like a prayer, Yami knew his intentions were far more selfish than he'd voiced, and any deity powerful enough to hear him would also have been able to see right through his vain and greedy heart. Even if it had been a prayer, he knew there was nothing in him that merited an answer.

"Do you believe in God?"

Yami bit his lip. Did he believe in a God who saw fit to put his Yugi through so much pain? "I don't know," he replied at last.

"Tea says He's everywhere," Yugi went on undeterred, his little voice heavy with sleep and soft between yawns, "and that He's always watching over us. She says that He's in control of everything. Doesn't that make you feel better?"

He wanted to contest it, but knew it would be best not to trouble Yugi, to let him believe whatever he wanted to believe, so long as it gave him comfort, but Yami questioned the sovereignty of a God who would so knowingly allow harm to come to such a tender creature. If there was such a God, Yami had many questions for Him.

"Go back to sleep, honey."

( )

"What is he doing?"

Yami stared out the window into the small backyard behind the house, his mind distantly registering what his eyes saw, and replied, "He's dancing."

The kid was inspired. He moved with spontaneous fluidity, as he'd been taught, in something tribal, something native that required no explanation—a dance all his own, a ritual, a sacred practice he performed with dignified solemnity. There was something very adult in him then, some contradiction of his assumed nature, something he'd never shown before, something that seemed to possess him with determination, move in his hands upturned to the sky. This was something vital, and necessary—and Yugi knew it—this expression of sensuality and movement and identity that he'd been robbed of, he had to take it all back, he had to be an animal distinct to only himself. He accomplished this in dance.

Yami understood. Finally. That this whole affair had nothing to do with some childish crush, some obsession—that it had everything to do with Yugi's sense of self, his expression, his freedom, his heartfelt worth. When he was moving out there in the sunlight and the breeze, he was proclaiming to the world, _this is me, and you cannot take that away._ Not a thing prideful or contemptuous in nature, but human, and individual, and real. It was a matter of life or death. Yami understood.

It was the dance that Yugi had fallen in love with.


	12. paint the sky with stars

There is an end in sight for this story—a fact I am proud of, but which also makes me a little sad. I've projected another two chapters and an epilogue of sorts will finish off I Want The Mad Ones. I don't know why I am wasting my time. I am not ready to be grown up. I want to always be a child and have fun. Sound familiar? Heh. I guess I've written much of myself into Yugi in this particular story. It's why I don't want it to end. I become the things I write—or rather, they become me. I map out the locations in my stories in relation to the neighborhood I grew up in. I know the selfsame dilapidated grocery store we used to play behind as children. They've renovated it since. So it goes. I know the grade school, and the assistant principal, and every feature of the weathered sidewalk on the way home. I know the shaded bench in the park overlooking the field of green. I know the waiting room in the hospital and the doctor's office and the wax paper covering the table and the pictures of sailboats lining the walls and the fake plastic plant in the corner. I know everything in Yugi's world by way of firsthand experience. Except Yami. Where is my Yami?

( )

Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Never been kissed, but already broken. There was a kind of resigned irony about the environment, and the attendants of Yugi's birthday party took care not to mention it. They'd all decided this was to be a happy day, full of fun and laughter for their friend. Nothing unpleasant was to be dwelt on or brought to his concern. This was a day his childlike, endearing naivety would be not only permissible but encouraged. This was his day.

Solomon had quite enjoyed all the planning and necessary shopping. He, of course, jumped at the opportunity to spoil his grandson, and therefore purchased anything the boy wanted for the party. There was cake and ice cream, pizza, soda, matching Pikachu paper plates and cups, and actual helium balloons. Yugi was ecstatic. He was beside himself with joy, and it was wonderful to see.

"You want to open your presents?'

Yugi was elated. His mouth full of pizza, he'd hardly found time between longwinded conversations with his friends to even eat, let alone think about the stack of gifts on the table that awaited his attention. Of course, once the issue had been brought to his interest, he could not refuse. "Yes, please," he said after gulping down some of the carbonated beverage in his cup.

"Which would you like to open first," Solomon asked.

"The big one," Yugi replied instantly, squirming excitedly in his seat.

"That's from me and Joey," Tristan said as the package was being handed to his friend.

The boy tore into the gift as if his very life depended on it, as if it were the only thing in the world that existed at that very moment. Having been wrapped by Joey and Tristan, the paper did not withstand Yugi's ministration long at all, and soon the naked box sat on the table for all to see. "It's a remote controlled car," Joey explained.

"Wow, cool!" Yugi's first instinct was to rip open the box and figure out how his new toy worked, but he was stopped by his father in the name of etiquette.

"Yugi, that is not polite," Yami corrected him with a soft laugh. "You have other gifts, and you can play with this one later."

"Okay," the boy yielded. "Thank you JoeyandTristan, for the car, it's really cool."

"Ah, forget about it," Joey said. "I'm jus' glad you like it."

"Yeah, we'll show you how to use it afterwards," Tristan agreed.

Solomon passed one of the last two presents to his grandson. "Here you go, Yugi," he said.

"Oh, that one's from Serenity and me," Tea spoke up. "I picked it out."

"And I wrapped it," the other girl added shyly. Yugi looked across the table at her and smiled. Serenity blushed.

This gift wasn't a box like the last. It was something lighter, and had been placed in a decorated bag beneath some colored tissue paper. This gift definitely bore the mark of feminine preparation. That so much thought and care went into the presentation, despite the fact that Yugi would soon tear the thing apart anyway, showed it could only have been given by girls. Strangely, the boy seemed conscious of this and took the process very slowly, deliberately, thoughtfully, as he shifted around the tissue paper in the bag to discover the gift inside, as if he wanted to recognize Serenity's outpoured effort, and to thank her for it. This was not typical behavior of a six year old.

"I don't have _this_ movie," Yugi said when the thing was in his hands. "I've got the cartoon one, and this has real people in it," he observed with curiosity as he read the title a third time to make sure it really said what he thought: Peter Pan.

How appropriate. The Peter Pan complex. The I-always-want-to-be-a-little-boy-and-have-fun mentality. Yami cringed inwardly.

"That one's the new one," Tea explained. "It's pretty good."

"You haven't seen it before," Serenity asked.

"Nope," Yugi said. "I can't wait to watch it. Thank you Tea. Thank you Serenity."

The girls smiled at him.

There was one present left. "Okay, here we go," Solomon said, placing the small gift in his grandson's hands. It was square and flat and wrapped in simple blue paper, which Yugi made short work of. It was a CD. The case was dark blue—almost black—and the cover bore some strange drawing in silvery lines. Yugi's eyes turned upon Bakura, the giver, for explanation, and like a domino effect everyone else stared at him, too.

"I wasn't sure what to get you," Bakura said, a little intimidated by the sudden attention. "So I picked up a copy of my favorite album. You remember that day in the park, Yugi?"

"When you danced," the boy offered.

Bakura smiled and nodded. "Well, that's the music I was dancing to. It's called Agætis Byrjun. The group's Icelandic. They're my absolute favorite." He paused, feeling self-conscious. "I hope you enjoy it."

Yugi gave him a warm smile. "Thank you," he said.

A hush fell over the table and just as the others thought it would be time to move on to the next birthday event, Solomon reached into his pocket and said, "And here's one from me." The small bundle he gave to Yugi was a thick stack of cards, bound by a single ribbon.

Yami started. He knew that shape, those dimensions, the dark, swirling graphic printed on one side. A whole series of emotional reactions went of in his head. There were so many memories attached to the image, and Yami panicked, knowing Yugi was not ready for them. "Solomon," he whispered, but it was too late, and the deck was already in Yugi's hands.

You could have heard a pin drop. It was as if the others had freeze-framed, having felt the tension heighten instantly. Yugi was staring at the cards. Just staring. Not a smile, not a frown, just an empty, neutral regard. Something passed through his eyes then, something barely perceptible, and he was quiet, and the room was quiet, and after a moment, his hand subconsciously strayed to a place above his right temple, a place that held a scar that still hurt, and he could sometimes hear a man's voice whispering, husky and low, when the silence was the worst.

Yami stood up. His protective nature screamed that this was very bad, very bad, nothing good can come from it, _undo_ it now! But it could not be taken back, the damage was done, and Yugi would have to deal with whatever emotional repercussions ensued. Later. Now was his birthday, he was supposed to be _happy_, damn it, why did Solomon ruin that for him? "Cake," Yami growled. It was all he could do to keep from yelling at the old man. "Now. Solomon...kitchen."

The elder Mutou looked stunned, as if he had no idea what was going on, as if Yami were playing a game with him that he didn't understand. The others at the table looked from Yami, standing tensely, to Solomon, who sat there quite bewildered, to Yugi, who had not yet responded, and back to Yami again. Waiting for something to happen. Anything. Somebody _break the ice._

"Uh...yeah...cake time now," Joey stammered. "That sounds good, doesn't it, Yuug?"

The boy lifted his head up slowly, almost disoriented, as if waking from a coma. He shook his head weakly in agreement. "Yeah," he echoed distantly, "sounds good."

"And me and Tristan can help you set up your remote controlled car," Joey continued, hoping if he kept it up he could distract Yugi.

"Cool," Yugi agreed, a rumor of excitement in his voice now, a smile claiming the corners of his mouth. It was working.

In the small-scale pandemonium of Tristan, Tea, Serenity, and Bakura all finally getting a clue and helping to engage their friend in any thought other than the deck of cards, Yami was able to slip away discreetly, all but dragging Solomon along by the collar of his shirt. "What was that all about," he asked when they were alone in the kitchen.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," the old man replied, still appearing to be out of the loop on what exactly was going on.

Yami turned his back, somehow managing to reign in his frustration as he spoke. "What were you thinking, giving him such a gift?"

"I...I thought it would be nice," Solomon admitted sheepishly. He had, in fact, gone to quite some trouble to reproduce Yugi's dueling deck to the best of his recollection, as the boy's original cards had been lost somewhere along the way. His backpack had never been recovered, the deck could have been stolen along with his Millennium Puzzle, or it could have been in its traditional location, in the front pocket of his jeans, which the hospital had disposed of, since Solomon so avidly insisted he did not care to tend to the stains and the memories. And so, every single card was gone.

With great difficulty over the last several months, Solomon had been able to acquire many of the basic monsters Yugi had once owned—Dark Magician and Dark Magician Girl, Celtic Guardian, Summoned Skull, Kuriboh, Mystical Elf, Magical Hats, Monster Reborn, Change of Heart—and a dozen other trap and spell cards. It was nowhere near the prowess of Yugi's former deck, but it was a basis on which he could rebuild. It was a very thoughtful gift, but it implied a great deal of responsibility on Yugi's part. The thing expected some return, that the boy would make use of it, that he would still have the same love of dueling, that he would be able to duel as well as or better than he ever did before, and that was asking a lot of anyone, and far too much of Yugi, who could hardly read the back of a cereal box anymore, let alone recall all the intricate rules and strategies of Duel Monsters.

"He's not ready."

"I just thought," Solomon said, his tone resigned, "that he would like it."

Yami removed a book of matches from a drawer. "I know," he replied at last, very softly. "If...if things had been different, I'm sure...but I don't think he can handle it—there are too many questions involved, too many intense feelings he's associated with that game. It's too confusing for him." He struck a match and began setting it to the wicks of the candles on the cake.

"But it's good for him to ask questions," Solomon objected. "Don't you want him to ask questions, to be curious about his past, to learn, and grow?"

"Yes," Yami admitted. "But I don't want him to be so overwhelmed by all the questions that he becomes confused, scared. I don't know." He shook the flame from the match and tossed it into the nearby sink. "It's his _birthday_, Solomon. I just wanted the day to come and go without event. I just wanted this one thing to go right."

( )

He had smiled, and then blown out the candles, but when Tea asked what he wished for, Yugi had no answer for her. There was a great deal going on inside his head, and Yami could tell, so he changed the subject by cutting the cake and setting the first piece—a big piece, with lots of frosting—in front of his son. Yugi showed minimal interest, and the others didn't have much to say.

"Daddy, how old am I?"

Yami stopped what he was doing. The table froze again. Damn. Could just one thing go right today? "Well, honey," he sighed, trying to think of something that was truthful, that would make sense—not another lie—something Yugi could determine for himself, that he didn't have to be told or force-fed by anyone else. "You are as old as you feel," Yami explained. "How old do you think you are?"

Yugi's gaze lost focus as he searched himself for an answer, his eyes landing passively on the cake before him, and he stared into it as if it held a clue. "Am I ten?"

Yami hesitated, hoping this was all right, that it was okay and not too dishonest, that he wasn't openly lying. "Do you feel ten?"

"Yes," he replied, the pitch of his voice a little lower than it had been in some while, "I think."

The others at the table relaxed, not sure how much more of these tense ups and downs they could handle, and Yugi took a bite of his cake. Yami said nothing more—taking care to neither dispute or affirm the boy's conviction—he simply let it be, let the moment pass, and went on serving birthday cake to Yugi's friends.

( )

"And then Tristan said we could go to his house, because he has a pool, and he showed me how to make the little car go around in a circle. I thought it was funny—Joey helped me, too." Yugi paused in his story as his father steered him into his bedroom. "And that movie was really cool. Did you watch it, Daddy?"

"No, honey," Yami replied, picking out a pair of pajamas from a dresser drawer.

"I liked it. I wish I could be like Peter Pan, and fly, and have a pet fairy, too, and name her Serenity." Yugi was talking himself to sleep.

"There are no such things as fairies," Yami said calmly, helping his son to strip his day clothes.

"Don't say that, they'll die," the boy explained, struggling out of his shirt. "Like Tinkerbell, and then you have to say, 'I do believe in fairies,' and then they'll be okay."

"All right, sweetheart." Yami offered an arm for balance as Yugi stepped into his pajama pants. "So you had a fun today?"

"Yes. Those presents were cool."

"Well, then you ought to write thank you notes to your friends." He shepherded his son toward his bed, where the sheets had already been turned down.

"Why," he asked, yawning.

"Because it's the polite thing to do," Yami replied. "Now, would you like to see your gift from me?"

"You got me a present, too," Yugi asked in surprise. "What is it?"

Yami smiled and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Stay put," he instructed, and walked toward the door and closed it, and then flicked off the light switch.

Before he could ask what his father was doing, Yugi found himself in the darkness of his room, but he was not afraid, because suddenly he discovered the night sky above him. The blackness was pinpricked with hundreds of stars, so many stars Yugi couldn't begin to count them; so many stars that, for a moment, he actually believed he was standing outside looking up at the heavens, rather than standing in his room looking up at the ceiling. "How did you do that," he breathed, as if it were magic.

Yami found his son's hand in the darkness, and held it gently. "They're stickers," he answered. "They glow in the dark, so that you can see them when you turn out the light."

Yugi clung to his father's arm as if he would be lost without it. "Now I won't be scared of the dark," he said quietly, in a distant voice, still in so much rapture and awe.

"I didn't realize you were scared of the dark."

"I was afraid to tell you."

"You don't have to be afraid to tell me anything." Yami paused, imagining the expression on the boy's face at that moment. "Do you like it," he asked at length.

"Yes," Yugi replied, a smile audible in his voice. "Thank you so much, Daddy."

"You're welcome, honey."

A moment later, Yugi asked, "Where's the Big Dipper?"

Yami laughed. "I don't know if it's up there. I wasn't really thinking about constellations." He nudged his son, signifying that it was time to crawl into bed. "You'll have to find one for yourself," he said, kneeling carefully in the dark to make sure Yugi was sufficiently tucked in.

"Will you stay, please," the boy asked. "You can help me find consternations."

"_Constellations_, Yugi," he corrected, "and yes, I will stay, though not for long, because you need to go to sleep."

"Okay," the boy replied, and obediently scooted over so that his father could lie beside him, and they both settled in for their stargazing. "I see a Dipper, but it's not the big one. It's a Tiny Dipper."

Yami laughed. "Where?"

"Over there," he said, and pointed.

Yami reached over in the darkness and traced the line of Yugi's arm with his fingers until he reached the end, the index finger, thrust out determinedly in the direction of the Tiny Dipper. He followed the boy's line of sight.

"See," Yugi demonstrated, drawing the shape in the air, "the handle goes down that way."

"I see it."

"And over there's a turtle," he said, motioning with his father's hand over his own. "I call it Speed Racer Turtle, 'cause he's really fast."

"How do you know that?"

"B'cause that car's chasing after him." He traced the outline. "What do you see, Daddy?"

"I don't know, honey."

"Well, try."

"...I see a rock."

"You're not trying hard enough."

"All right...I see...a bird. Right there."

"That's a good one. What's its name?"

"Horace."

_Christmas Tree_

_Howling Wolf_

_A Pancake in the Shape of a Cactus_

_Bunny Foo Foo_

_Old Horse_

And together they mapped out the order of the stars, laughing softly and contently in each other's presence and the magic of the light, lingering in silences and heartbeats and hushed whispers, finding comfort in familiarity and shapes etched in darkness well into the night.

( )

That someone could actually own a backyard full of water was a very strange concept to Yugi, but it was an idea he warmed up to as soon as he and the others went for a swim. Yugi loved to swim. Another instinct. Like riding a bike. Very soon he and his friends were playing all manner of pool games—Marco Polo, Penny Hunt, and Freeze Tag. Tristan brought out his CD player, Mrs. Taylor made lunch for everyone, and then came the obligatory half hour wait before swimming again. Tristan, Joey, and Yugi were horsing around in the small patch of grass beside the pool, Bakura and Serenity were talking together by the diving board, dipping their legs into the cool water and—flirting, was it? Tea decided to sun for a while, and so she stretched out on one of the reclining plastic pool chairs, beside Yami, who accepted her company gratefully. He, of course, had not swum that day and had instead sat by himself and observed.

"This is nice," Tea said, relishing the warmth of the sun on her face.

"Yes, it is," Yami agreed, glancing at her.

"You ought to go for a swim. The water's fantastic," she remarked.

He smiled at her. "I don't know how to swim."

"You could stand in the shallow end," she offered, "and just enjoy the water."

"I don't have swimming trunks."

"Stop making excuses." Tea laughed. "I'm sure the Taylor's have a pair you can borrow." She looked at him amusedly. "Or would that be too personal?"

His eyes swept over her figure briefly. "Yes," he said, "it would. But I have no desire to swim, thank you."

"All right, suit yourself. You don't know what you're missing."

Yami stared at her. "Yes, I think I do," he said, and looked away. Yugi shrieked in delight where he played on the grass with Joey and Tristan.

"You seem so sad," Tea observed quietly, and sat up to speak more confidentially to him. "What's going on?"

Yami sighed. "Just...things," he explained. "Little things. Worry, and doubt."

"You're worried about Yugi?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm worried more for...his future. How long this whole thing is going to last. If it will ever end, and things return to the way they were. Selfish things like that."

"That's not selfish," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "You care about Yugi." She paused. "Why is there doubt?"

"I doubt my actions regarding him. My competence as a parent. The things I let him get away with. The things I let him believe." The hand on his arm tightened in a little reassuring squeeze. He looked over at her.

"You're doing fine," she said, smiling brightly at him. "_He's_ doing fine. You're just—"

It all happened so fast.

Yugi cried out again, but this time not in joy.

Yami froze.

A parent's trained ear can immediately make the distinction between a happy noise and a hurt noise. He was instantly on his feet and before anyone else had time to register what was going on, he was at Yugi's side, where the boy had fallen to the ground, just folded, just crumpled, it had seemed. "What happened," he barked to no one in particular.

Joey gaped. "I...I don't know. I was chasin' him, I think he tripped. I'm so sorry."

Yami bent over his son. "Yugi, what hurts," he coaxed, trying to lift him up. Yugi grunted. That was all he could do. His eyes were shut tightly and his jaw was clenched so hard that his ears were ringing. His fingers dug into grass and dirt, and the knuckles were turning white. Yami felt a chillingly familiar pit of nausea in his stomach. Something was very wrong, and he knew it without having to be told. He needed to get Yugi away somewhere. Somewhere quiet, where the cause of this outburst could be determined in privacy. Yami had a disconcerting suspicion that he already knew what was wrong, that he already knew which part of his boy was hurt—the part that still hurt—that would take several more long months to completely heal.

_I should not have let him work himself up. When will I learn?_

Wordlessly, he scooped the boy up and whisked him inside the house, with Tristan following close behind him in concern. "A bathroom," Yami inquired urgently.

"Down this hall, second door on the right," the teen instructed him. "Can I help?"

"Perhaps, when I find out what's wrong," Yami replied, stepping quickly through the doorway and setting his charge carefully on the counter. Yugi was still doubled forward in pain. "Yugi, honey, talk to me."

The boy looked up at him with effort, his brow creased, his eyes tearing. "Daddy," he said, and his voice strained with panic and hurt. _Daddy, help me._

Yami knew.

"Tristan, can you wait outside please?"

"Sure." Confused but willing to comply, he closed the door on his way out.

Yugi was whimpering. "It's okay," Yami said as he carefully pulled the boy off the countertop and steadied him on his feet, "I've got you." He knew what he was looking for. Bracing his son against himself with one arm, he leaned over the boy and with his free hand stretched the elastic hem of Yugi's swimming trunks away from the skin of his lower back. As discreetly as possible, he peered into the folds of material at the dark, wet stain. He brushed his fingertips against it and they came off the fabric red. He sighed, restored the waistband. "Okay," he said gently, whispering into the boy's ear, "you're bleeding again."

Yugi shook his head fervently, as if he could dispute it. He was gripping Yami's shirt, trying to bury himself. "I don't want to bleed anymore," he wept sadly.

"I know." Yami encased the boy in a proper hug, ran his clean fingers through his hair, wishing there could be some way to take all of these setbacks, these disappointments, these heartbreaks away from his precious perfect Yugi. A month ago, it was mutually decided that the panty liners they'd begun using to catch the rest of the bleeding were no longer necessary. Yugi had gloried in this triumph, proud that he'd overcome this one obstacle—that he'd healed as much as to not be bleeding anymore. And now even that one small sense of victory was gone. "We need to be more careful, okay? You know what your body can handle," Yami reminded the boy softly. "And no more swimming today."

"No."

"I'm afraid so, sweetheart."

Yugi sobbed against his father, frustrated and in pain, the sharp pains—like ice picks—that he hated and wished would never come back, the accompanying discomfort and humiliation he'd thought he put behind him. It was all back again.

( )

"It's quite apparent what happened," Doctor Johnson was saying. "In his physical exertion, Yugi reopened one of the healing rectal lacerations. Now, obviously, he'll bleed for another few weeks, and any longer than that, you should definitely give me a call. Other than this little event, he seems to be perfectly healthy and doing very well. Just try to remind him to take it easy for a while, okay?"

The only thing Yami hated more than the way the doctor seemed to talk down to Solomon and him—as though they were stupid and didn't have a clue—was the way he spoke about Yugi as if he weren't in the room. He's _right there_, you imbecile. _Speak to him_. Otherwise you make him feel invisible, and he doesn't like that.

"All right," Solomon agreed. "Thank you very much, doctor."

( )

"He wasn't even talking to me," Yugi mumbled in the taxi on the way home. He scowled darkly out at the scenery changing in the window. "Like I wasn't there."

"I noticed it too," Yami said. "Don't let it bother you, Yugi. Doctor Johnson wasn't intending to be rude to you."

"But he didn't even talk to me." The boy's posture showed defiance, his expression contempt.

"That's enough of that," Yami scolded lightly. While he understood how upsetting the doctor's ignorance was to his son, he needed to make sure all manners were minded. This bitterness was not becoming of sweet little Yugi.

"I hate it when he does that."

"All right." Yami was losing patience with the boy's attitude.

Yugi crossed his arms over his chest, and in a very low and derisive tone, he said, "I hate him."

Solomon craned his head around where he sat in the passenger seat to look at his grandson in shock. The driver hadn't heard, or didn't care. Yami was staring at the boy. "I sincerely hope, for your sake, you didn't mean that," he warned, and Yugi's shoulders drooped, and the tension left his temperament. He would pout now, understanding that he'd said something bad, and regretting that he could not take it back. "I expect more from you," Yami continued. "You of all people should be aware of the negative effects of hate. You know better than that."

Yugi hung his head. Now Daddy was upset with him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. His father only looked away, and said nothing. Now it was serious. Daddy didn't forgive him. Daddy was mad. Yugi's world came to an abrupt stop. "I'm sorry, Daddy," he tried again, a little louder and more desperate, his voice wavering, on the verge of tears. Nothing. Oh God. Yugi started crying—a broken kind of crying—apologizing piteously between sobs.

Now the driver was attending to the conversation, but he pretended not to, as he always did, and he drove his fares to their destination, the Turtle Game Shop. Solomon paid him and the three piled out of the car. Yugi was tripping over himself with tears, and Yami guided him up to the house with a hand on his shoulder. "I've got to open the shop," Solomon explained, "so I'll see you in a few hours." Yami nodded in acknowledgement, and walked with Yugi into the living area behind the store.

When they'd reached the boy's room, they came to a halt, and Yami turned his son toward himself, and hugged him tightly. Yugi was caught off guard, having thought he was going to be punished, but in a moment his guilty sobs were just sobs. He just cried, for no reason he could readily name. He was in mild pain, but not as bad as yesterday at Tristan's house. He was frustrated that he was still bleeding. He was very sorry that he'd made his father upset. He was just sad. And he cried, and Daddy held him, as if he knew all the thoughts in the boy's head, as if he were saying, _It's okay to be confused_.

"I forgive you, honey," Yami said after a moment when the boy in his arms had calmed somewhat. "I know you did not mean it. You are not capable of hate." Cautiously, he backed up several feet and lowered himself to sit in the rocking chair, bringing his son with him. "I'm sorry all these things happen to you, baby. I wish I could take them away from you. I wish you could just be happy."

Yugi sat up in Yami's lap, rubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand, and sniffled. He was very quiet for a long time, and then he whispered, "How long will I hurt?"

"Do you mean," Yami asked, choosing his words very carefully, "how long will you hurt in your body, or how long will you hurt in your heart?"

Yugi looked him straight in the eye. "My heart," he answered.

Yami sighed. "It will take time," he explained, and in some small part of his logical brain, he wondered how much Yugi really remembered, and how long he had known. Yami felt as if he were speaking to two Yugi's—the sixteen-year-old Yugi, who'd been raped but never had amnesia, and the little Yugi, who'd been cut by some man and who was scared and needed Daddy. Which was listening now? The feeling unnerved him. "Your friends, and your grandfather, and I will be here for you," he went on in spite of his misgivings. "And if you ever want to talk about it, you just come tell me. And if you want to be sad for a while, that's okay, too. We all love you, and we're taking this at your pace, and we're dealing with things as they happen."

Yugi was thoughtful, taking this in. He didn't want to hurt in his heart anymore. Yes, he wanted to be happy again. He felt a little bit better, knowing his father was not upset, knowing that his father loved him, and would be there to talk about the difficult things when he was ready. He would not hurt forever. There was an end in sight. Comforted, he leaned against Yami's chest and closed his eyes.


	13. Yugi in his pajamas in the rain

_coeptus-a beginning_

_intercapedo-interval , pause, respite_

_in media res-in the middle of a sequence of events_

As I draw nearer to the end of my little fiction, I am faced with great indecision. I am constantly second guessing myself, wanting to write beyond what I originally planned when I began this story over six months ago. I know I cannot do this. A good story has a beginning, middle, and end, and I have already spelled out to myself what those particulars are. Of course, it is only natural that life goes on and on, as this fiction most likely will play out in my head, but as the author I must do it the fair and simple justice of bringing everything to a close. And I owe it to you, the reader, to set your mind at ease and not patronize you by drawing the ending out. And I owe it to myself to close this particular chapter of my life and move on to something fresh, so that I might look back on I Want the Mad Ones with the fond and humble knowledge that I set my mind to create something very special, and I saw it through.

_(coeptus)_

It was not the mere fact that there was pitch darkness, a digital clock glaring a red 12:43 where the top of the entertainment center would be, instead of the comforting and familiar array of stars overhead, nor the fact that he'd just woken up from the same unnerving dream he'd been having lately—the one about rain—that made Yugi begin to cry. What made him cry was the sudden paralyzing knowledge that he was in an unfamiliar house, and Daddy was not there. The whole thing seemed worse now, as images from his dream began to resurface, and Yugi snuggled further into his bedding, trying to make them go away, trying to shield himself from the darkness he felt pressing in on him like the rain in his dream and a man's face, shadowed, and hungry—and there was blood—and what scared him most were the eyes.

Yugi sniffled, feeling ashamed that Joey and Tristan didn't seem to need their daddies anymore, so why did he? Why was he so different from his friends? Why couldn't he just be normal, like them, and last through the night without the fear that, if he didn't reach Daddy's outstretched arms soon, he'd fall off the face of the planet? It made Yugi feel very inferior, and very stupid, like he couldn't do anything on his own. He couldn't even protect himself, he was helpless, and small, and trembling under the blade of a shiny, shiny knife. _He_ was right. The serpent smile that spoke to him from the shadows and out of the rain and told him how pathetic, and helpless, and pretty he was, _here, pretty thing_, it said, and in every dream, Yugi wanted to run, but he couldn't, he was helpless, and stupid, standing stiffly in the rain and soaking wet while the serpent voice came closer, and closer—

"Hey, Yuug, is that you?"

Yugi sniffled.

"What's wrong?" Receiving no answer, Joey's concern began to grow, and he inched a little further toward his friend the dark. "You can tell me, buddy. Are you scared of the dark?"

Not only that...

"Honestly, Yuug. You can tell me anything—I won't think bad about you. What's wrong?"

Yugi was quiet for a long time. He sniffled again, and said, "I miss my Daddy."

"Oh, I see." Joey glanced around him in the dark, trying to guess where Tristan would be sleeping nearby on the floor. "Do you need to go home," he gently asked his friend. "I'm sure Tristan wouldn't mind going with me to walk you home."

"No," Yugi said tearfully, and shoved his face in the pillow. Stop crying...

"C'mon," Joey insisted, "it's okay, really. Where are you, Tristan?" Carefully, he stuck his foot out in the general direction of where his friend had fallen asleep hours ago, and he encountered a large, motionless pile of sleeping bag and quilt. "Hey, wake up," he said, nudging the lump with his toe. A soft snore, and no answer. "Earth to Tristan," he tried again, and kicked.

"Huh? What's going on," the teen mumbled groggily.

"Yugi's kinda homesick," Joey explained. "He says he doesn't wanna go, but I think it would be best."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed, and yawned. "Hey, Yugi, my dad can drive you home, if you want. It's no trouble."

Yugi sniveled into the pillow. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was muffled.

"Aw, don't worry about it. It's okay. I'll go get my dad," he said, rising from the living room floor and making his way expertly to the light switch in the kitchen. "Hey, why don't you call over there, Joe, to let them know we're coming."

"Good idea," Joey agreed, catching the wireless phone that his friend had tossed to him before walking down the hallway in the direction of the master bedroom. He dialed the number from memory, squinting in the faint light coming in from the kitchen. It rang twice. Yami answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Joey."

There was a deep sigh on the other line, as if Yami had been expecting this call. "What's wrong," he asked.

"Yugi's not doing too well over here," the teen explained. "He probably just needs to sleep in his own bed, you know? Tristan's dad is gonna drive him over there, so you can expect them in a couple minutes."

Yami was silent for a moment. He could hear Yugi crying very softly in the background. "Could you do me a favor," he asked finally, "and go with him? For his comfort, that is. Nothing against Tristan's father, but—"

"—Yeah, I know what you mean," Joey finished the thought. "It's okay. We'll both go with him. He'll feel safer that way."

"Thank you, Joey."

_(intercapedo)_

"You're crying, aren't you?" Yes, there were tears streaming silently down his face as he discarded his sleepover bag on the floor and kicked off his shoes. Yugi was not a silent crier. Something was wrong. "Come here," Yami said, and sat with his boy on the edge of the bed, and brushed the bangs out of his face. "What's wrong?"

"I missed you."

A pause.

"And? What else are you keeping from me?"

He averted his eyes. "I've been having this dream."

"What happens in this dream," Yami asked carefully.

"...It rains."

This was so important.

"What happens next?"

"And, someone is there. And I'm—afraid." The boy was lost within himself as he spoke. "And it rains on me, it just pours, but I'm not going anywhere, and I'm afraid."

"Why are you afraid?"

"...Because someone is there. And I don't want him there."

"Who?"

Yugi avoided the question. "He talks to me, and I don't like the things he says. They make me sick."

"What things does he say to you?"

"...I don't remember," he lied, "but he hurts me."

"How does he hurt you?"

"He—" Something passed through his eyes, and he fell silent, and a mental wall went up again. "I don't want to talk about it."

_(intercapedo)_

The fundamentals of whether Spider-man is more or less heroic than Batman are actually rather interesting, especially when Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor are the only candidates for debate. Joey, being a die-hard DC Comics fanatic, insisted that Bruce Wayne, having no extraordinary powers, just a good set of morals and unlimited resources, was the truly heroic one. And Tristan, who was utterly loyal to Marvel Comics, argued that Peter Parker was, by far, the more realistic and down-to-earth character, and his admirable intellect and dedication were what qualified him as more heroic.

The two were so busy dissecting the issue, it would have seemed they completely forgot about their friend, who was also in the room with them but remained very still and withdrawn. Yugi was staring out of the window at the overcast sky, participating rarely in the discussion and even then with only a fraction of interest. Comments were not his usual childish and spontaneous outbursts, but pensive, thoughtful, quiet remarks. Half a smile. A word or two of agreement, "Yeah, that's cool, mm-hmm."

Joey and Tristan had noticed the difference, but didn't mention it. They could tell that maybe something was on his mind, but they figured he would deal with it on his own. "Talking about stuff" wasn't really their forte, and neither of the boys thought they would be of much help. There was a knock on the door a while before noon. Yami entered the room without waiting for a reply. "Lunch will be ready in half an hour," he said, and stopped to glance with disapproval at the room. "Yugi, when did you last clean up in here?"

"On Thursday."

Yami sighed. "Well, it's a mess again. I'd like you to clean it before lunch."

"But Joey and Tristan are over," Yugi objected.

"Don't argue with me," he scolded. "You could have picked up the room before your friends came over, but you didn't. I want it cleaned before you play anymore this afternoon."

Yugi dropped his eyes. "Yes, Daddy," he said.

Once the three friends had finished lunch, they sat in the living room, the television tuned to some cheesy Saturday afternoon movie. Between ten-minute snippets of obvious and hokey special effects, while fast-paced ads for used car dealerships and furniture liquidation sales overwhelmed the screen, the teenagers would chat mildly about one random subject or another. It was during one of these commercial breaks that Yami decided to put his foot down. He approached the couch where Yugi was sitting, and prepared to take the mild disciplinary action of sending the others away for his son's disobedience.

"Yugi," he said when he was near enough, "why haven't you cleaned your room yet?" Receiving no answer, he assumed the boy did not hear him over the television—although the volume was not high and no one seemed to be paying attention to it—so he tried again, "Yugi?" At this proximity, he could see that the boy's shoulders were shaking, just slightly. As if some terrible, ominous notion were revealing itself to him in that moment, Yami began to hear the exchange going on between Joey and Tristan:

"Stealing from the teachers' rooms?"

"Yeah, that's the buzz," Joey replied. "Don't know if it's true or not. Well, anyway, they couldn't find enough evidence, so he got off with a warning."

"You know," Tristan said, "Crazy old Jack has always given me the creeps, the way he stands out in the hall watching everybody go to class."

"It's just a matter of time before he does something to get himself fired," the blonde agreed, shaking his head.

Yami glanced again at his son, who seemed petrified, as if he'd seen a ghost, and he wondered what correlation there could be between the conversation of the two teenagers and Yugi's sudden timid countenance. He turned his attention back to Joey and asked, "Who are you speaking about?"

Joey started, a little surprised at Yami's interest. "Crazy old Jack," he clarified, "the janitor at school."

Yugi began to retch.

_(intercapedo)_

Yugi stared at himself in the mirror of the bathroom for several long moments. He was staring at his hair, at the ridiculous shape of it, at the colors of it, the oddity that set him apart from the crowd. He had no control over it, like everything else in his life. It was as if he'd just woken up to it one day, like he just came into the world and everything around him was as it was and always would be—he couldn't change it, he couldn't change anything in the slightest, and this least of all—this oddity that set him apart. He hated it.

_(in media res)_

"What did you do after Joey and Tristan left, Yami?"

"I tried to talk to him. He wouldn't answer me, so I took him to his room to lie down. I don't know what to do, Solomon."

"Don't read too much into it."

"How can you say that? It's plain as day, the way he reacted to what the others were saying. If you had only seen his face—he was terrified. I have no choice but to 'read into' it. I think he was trying to tell me—"

"—Yami, I really can't talk about this right now. I have customers."

"This is _important_, Solomon. I think I should speak with him about it. Maybe he remembers, and he's just avoiding my questions."

"That should tell you he doesn't want to talk about it."

_(in media res)_

Fiskars.

Yugi thought the name was funny, like some kind of cat. The snipping sound the two blades made as they came together reminded him of something he'd heard before, and the unstuck sound they made when they came apart. It was almost like breathing. Like the Fiskars scissors in his hand were alive—some exotic bird with a red plastic handle for a head and metal shears for a beak.

His hand unconsciously flexed, working the handle: snip, snip.

_(in media res)_

"That's the point! Why am I letting him get away with it? If something is tearing him up inside, he should talk to me, damn it!"

"Yami, calm down. You have to be patient. Yugi will come to you on his own time."

"I have been patient—and it's gotten us nowhere. If there is something on his mind, or something that he remembered, now is the time to talk about it. I let him skirt around the subject far too much. If he doesn't embrace the difficult things in life and only dwells on what is pleasant, he'll never grow. He's been running away, and I have allowed it."

"What happened to you? When did you start thinking this way?"

"...When I realized Yugi knows more than he lets on. Isn't that disconcerting, Solomon? He's ignoring it—and I won't even know what exactly he remembers until he _talks_ to me."

_(in media res)_

He knew what he wanted to do. With his free hand, Yugi grabbed a fistful of hair and watched closely in the mirror as he moved the scissors into place, and started cutting. The blades were sharp, and they severed the strands effortlessly: snip, snip. Yugi watched an inch-long clump fall to the floor, followed by another, and another, and the tile at his feet was scattered with several locks of his dark hair. His eyes filled with tears.

"—Yugi!"

Startled by the intrusion, he jerked as the scissors were closing again, this time missing the hair completely. The very tips of the shears caught on his wrist—just pinched the skin—but the momentum of his action carried the function of the scissors through: snip. Yami was instantly beside him, tearing the scissors out of his hand and tossing them away. "What were you doing," he asked in shock and alarm when he'd had a moment to collect himself. "Yugi, what were you doing with those scissors?"

The boy whimpered, cradling his wound to himself. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Let me see," Yami demanded, taking the boy's wrist in his hand for a close inspection. The small cut at the base of the thumb was no longer than half an inch, but it bled profusely, so Yami covered it with his fingers, applying pressure just below it. "It isn't bad. You'll be all right," he said, and then looked the boy determinedly in the eye. "Now, what were you doing with those scissors? Answer me." Yugi stared down at his father's hand over his own and at all the blood, and he was silent and hung his head in shame. It's when Yami saw his hair—that it was uneven on one side. He glanced down at the floor and saw the severed locks. "Yugi, why did you do that?"

Yugi sniffled, and said softly, "I hate it."

"What do you hate," Yami coaxed.

"...My hair," he clarified. "It's ugly. And I hate it."

Yami sighed, and leaned over to touch his lips to the top of Yugi's head, and kiss his hair. His son would still not look at him. "Honey," he said gently, "I don't think any part of you is ugly. But if you wanted to change your hair so badly, you could have just told me. We can pay a professional to cut it however you want, okay?"

Yugi said nothing, but slumped forward to lean against his father. "I'm sorry," he cried.

"I only want you to be careful." Yami hesitated, an alien and disturbing thought occurring to him slowly. "Were you trying to hurt yourself," he asked.

Yugi had to think for a moment. "No," he answered at last.

"Are you sure?" He waited, but there was no response, so he continued carefully, "Because some people...who have been hurt, sometimes do things or think of doing things to hurt themselves, so that the hurt inside doesn't seem so bad." Yugi had gone rigid. "I don't ever want you to do that, sweetheart," Yami said, and his voice wavered. "If you even _think_ of something like that, I want you to come find me and talk to me first, do you understand? It doesn't matter where or when, you just come get me, and I'll drop whatever I'm doing and talk to you. Will you promise me? Yugi, promise me."

Yugi sniffled again. "Okay," he yielded.

"Say the words," Yami commanded.

"...I promise."

_(intercapedo)_

_I have been meaning to talk to you about that incident with the doctor a while back after Tristan's pool party, Yugi._

_I know. I'm sorry._

_It is quite all right. It just worried me. I was sitting in the cab, staring at you, and you were so full of anger. You are not supposed to be the angry one—it is not in your nature. You are sweet and gentle. Leave hate to me._

_Do you think you have enough hate for the both of us?_

_I have hate enough for many people._

_Really? I don't see that in you._

_There has never been a reason for you to see my hatred, because none of it has ever been directed at you._

_I didn't think you were capable of hate._

_Sometimes. For the right person._

_About that...There's something I need you to do for me. You know what it is._

_Later. You need me now. I will stay with you until the opportune moment arises._

_You've never given up on me._

_Of course not. Be my little boy forever._

_I've got to grow up sometime. You know that._

_Yes. But I wish you could be my precious little Yugi forever. That way I could play Daddy forever, and we can always be happy, in our own little world._

_You don't really want it that way._

..._No. I only want to keep all the Bad Things from you._

_But you can't do that. Bad Things are a part of life. They'll make me stronger._

_I do not want to lose you._

_You're not going to lose me. I love you, Daddy. Daddy?_

"Daddy?"

—Yami woke suddenly to the sound of his son's voice, urging him awake. For a moment he was confused as his senses returned to him. Sleep embraced him like a lover. It was warm, and comfortable, and he wished he did not have to push it away, but Yugi needed him. "Yes," he asked, "what is it?"

"I can't sleep," the boy answered. He was squirming on the bed where he'd snuggled against his father perhaps an hour before. It had been one of those nights. "I'm thirsty," he whispered.

"What would you like?"

"Milk, please."

Yami returned several moments later with the order, and he flicked on the light so that his son could drink without spilling. They sat on the edge of the bed together as Yugi sipped his milk in silence. "Daddy," he said finally, "can we go on the rocking chair?"

Yami sighed. "The milk isn't working," he asked.

"I'm still not sleepy," Yugi answered, and yawned.

Yami laughed softly. "Okay," he said and helped his son, holding a half-empty glass of milk, to his feet and they padded quietly to the boy's room. Another light was turned on—the small lamp on Yugi's desk—and then Yami sunk tiredly down into the stiff rocking chair. Yugi crawled up after him, still clutching his glass in one hand, and settled down on his father's lap.

Yami could barely keep his eyes open, but he held his boy, and rocked him lovingly. The only sounds were the creaking of the chair and the endearing slurps as Yugi gulped down the milk. Yami held his arm—his wrist—where a white gauze bandage had been affixed with medical tape. The wound had not bled much, and Yami would remove the dressing the next day. Solomon had been at a loss when he was told what happened.

"Daddy, where does milk come from?"

"Cows." Yugi noisily swallowed the very last bit of milk, and Yami took the glass from him and leaned over the arm of the chair to place it on the floor.

"Does it hurt the cows to take the milk from them?"

"No, sweetheart."

Yugi curled up against his father and sighed groggily. "How do the cows make the milk," he asked.

"After mother cows have their calves, their bodies make milk for the baby cows to drink."

"Why does that happen?"

"It just does. No more questions, honey. Try to sleep."

Yugi obeyed and closed his eyes. He felt very warm, and very tired, being rocked softly in the silence. "Daddy, will you sing, please?"

"What do you want me to sing?"

"The ice cube songs."

"I don't know those songs."

"The CD Bakura gave me at my birthday," Yugi said. "My favorite is the star song."

"Those are Icelandic songs, Yugi—not ice cube," Yami explained with a smile. "And besides, I don't know the words."

"They're not hard. One of them goes like this." He hummed the tune. The chair rocked gently. When he was quiet, Yugi could hear the crickets outside. "Daddy," he said after a while. "You won't leave, will you?"

"What do you mean," Yami asked.

"I just don't want you to leave. I don't want to lose you."

Yami shivered. "You're not going to lose me," he echoed, experiencing an unsettling bout of déjà vu. "I love you, Yugi."

_(intercapedo)_

It was a simple enough request, a fetish all children have at one age or another, a peculiar but necessary infatuation with playing in the rain. Something about the rebellion and intrigue of going out and getting all dirty and making mud pies and tormenting earthworms entertains children to no end. It was a simple enough request for any other child, but when it was asked of Yami, he did not know what to say. Yugi had come down in his pajamas that morning and glued himself to the window.

"Daddy, can I go play in the rain?"

Yami stared at him. Child, what could you possibly have to do out there? The rain terrifies you. You are fooling no one. "I don't know, Yugi."

"Please." It was not the selfish begging of a child. It was one injured human being to another. Please step down for once and let me do this thing I need to do.

"All right," Yami said, knowing he was powerless to stop him, "just for a while."

The boy disappeared to the coat closet to get his boots without being told, and he left through the back door onto the small lawn. To Yami, who watched him through the window, it seemed he would wander around aimlessly out there, but Yugi stopped, and he stood very still and somehow the world around him stilled as well, in respect of the boy's need of silence for one moment. He was holding his hand out, Yami realized, to feel the gentle tapping of the rain against his skin. The water was chilled, and it pooled in his palm and ran down to the back of his hand and dripped to the ground.

Yugi stood there for a while and let the water permeate his flannel pajamas. The raindrops made a hissing sound as they struck each individual blade of grass, every leaf and twig and rock. It sounded like a mystical, earthy lullaby to him. He stood there for quite a while, and he closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky and let the rain caress him, let it pour down on him and wash away the salt of tears that his father couldn't see but knew were there just the same. He stood out there in his pajamas with his uneven hair being matted against his head and the bandage on his wrist soaking through and an earring high in the cartilage of his ear and a scar above his right temple and he let himself be drenched, saturated, filled, possessed.

Yami knew his son well enough to not have to be told what was going on. Yugi was purging himself. He was letting the rain take everything away for the moment. He was letting the rain take hold of him, letting it course around and through him until he was soaked to the bone, until there was nothing left for other people to mar, or hurt, or take for themselves. He had overcome his fear of the thing and embraced it instead. He was flying in the face of everything that haunted him—ha, look at me now—and learning how to be bigger than the nightmares. He had never looked more beautiful than in that moment. And as the rain poured down on him that morning, Yugi smiled.


	14. beyond the rain slicked streets

So here's the question: "How does the title relate?"

Allow me to explain. It comes from the opening of the book _The Boy and the Dog Are Sleeping_ by Nasdijj. I believe I have mentioned it before. It's what really inspired me to write this. The idea had come to me some time before, but it wasn't until I read this man's story of his son's struggle with pediatric AIDS that I realized things like this can be written. All of the details. If led faithfully through the story, the reader can accept anything. If he trusts the author, he will accept anything. So I thank each and every one of my readers and my reviewers from the bottom of my heart for _trusting me_. Thank you for making the experience of writing this fiction a joy and a triumph. I could not have done it without your support and encouragement. God bless you.

"_I am afraid of losing my mind. I want something no one is allowed to have._

_I want the mad ones. The children mad enough to struggle and survive. I want the children who have seen war. The children mad enough to question everything. The children who have had everything taken away from them. The children who are broken and mad enough to attempt to repair themselves. The children mad enough to spit and fight. Mad enough to laugh outrageously. Mad enough to make music of their own. Mad enough to see themselves as individuals. I want children who will dance in the rain. I want the mad, crazy ones. I want the ones insane enough to love hard, and brave enough to be vulnerable."_

_Nasdijj_

Updated February 2005:

I finally realized last night in my creative writing class that I have been remiss all this time. I most humbly apologize to my readers, who so faithfully invested in Yugi's struggle and then were cheated out of the moment of remembrance by this ugly deus ex machina I forced upon them. I had intended the revelation to come to you in the manner it is revealed to Yami, as he is essentially the main character, but that was hardly fair, and it has been a common thread of criticism. I resolved to myself upon this epiphany that I would attend to this error, if not for the enjoyment of the initial readers, then for the simple comfort of my own peace of mind. This is so important. I want you to be there with Yugi when he remembers. I want to give you this gift.

_(coeptus)_

"So he's making progress?"

"Yes," Yami replied, "in the little things. Slowly, it seems—very slowly—I'm beginning to recognize the person he used to be."

The other man nodded profoundly where he sat across the desk. "How are you dealing with that?" he asked. "Are you prepared for the event that everything returns to the way it was?"

"I am…not sure," he admitted sadly. "I've gotten so used to being his father, to having someone depend on me. It will be difficult to go back now. I guess…no. I am not ready. But it will be for the best…whenever it happens." He sighed heavily, like some immense weight was settling into his chest. Like a man exhausted. "Sometimes I feel like we're going in circles. One minute I'll be convinced that we're on the verge of some breakthrough…then he'll revert. I know it's a slow process. I just want him to be okay." Kei was staring at him. Yami continued, "He had kind of an episode last week. His friends were talking about a mutual acquaintance at school, and I was standing nearby, and I could see that Yugi was afraid—sincerely terrified—and as soon as the man's name was mentioned, he started gagging, violently. I tried to talk to him—he wouldn't answer me. It seemed like he was…in shock."

"And you want to know what it could mean," the psychologist suggested.

"I know what I think it means," Yami said carefully.

"And I am obliged to agree with you. Yugi might very well know the identity of his assailant, and even if he's repressed it, when confronted, it only makes sense that he reacted the way he did," Kei explained. "So what are you going to do with this knowledge?"

"I don't know. Wait, I guess. I really don't know what I _can_ do. Any DNA trace we had at the beginning is gone now. We had no one to match it against. And without Yugi's testimony of what happened, it's my hunch against that bastard's word. I can't do anything," Yami speculated.

"You've thought about this."

"Of course I have."

Kei nodded again, shifted in his seat and removed his glasses to wipe them methodically on the hem of his shirt. "So what did you do after the…episode?"

"I took him to his room. I made the grave error of leaving him alone. That was the day I told you about over the phone, when I found him in the bathroom with the scissors."

"You think he was purposefully trying to hurt himself?"

Yami's eyes lost focus for a second, and then fixed in on the other man once more. "In light of what had just happened, I would have to say yes," he answered. "Yugi gave me a perfectly innocent explanation, but it still concerns me. He's never struck me as suicidal, though."

"It wasn't necessarily an attempt at suicide," Kei reminded him, slipping his glasses back into place, "just self-mutilation. Whether he honestly only wanted to cut his hair, or if he had the intention of cutting himself, you may never decipher. Consider only it a very deliberate act of mutilation."

"Why would he do that?"

Kei folded his hands calmly in front of him. "Several possibilities," he illuminated. "He may have been trying to…distract himself. You said you suspected him of remembering things?"

"He's seemed so distant lately."

"When did you first get this feeling?"

He thought for a moment. "He came home from a slumber party that didn't work out," Yami recalled after a moment. "He told me about a dream that he's been having frequently."

Kei looked surprised. "He's dreaming about the incident?"

"I assume. From the description he gave me, I could not imagine a different interpretation."

"Isn't it possible, though, that this is not a recurring dream, but a memory," he inquired, leaning back into the leather upholstered chair, "and telling you it was merely a 'dream' might make it less frightening to him? If he indeed has remembered something of that evening, it is understandable that he would be shaken to the core, but the ten year-old mentality would prevent him from accepting the memory as fact and instead give him way to dismiss it as a 'bad dream'."

"What should I do about it?"

"Nothing," Kei shrugged. "There's nothing you can do. This is his memory, and he's got to handle it in his own way."

"So…ignore it? Like I have all along?" Yami was growing irritated, his voice rising in aggravation. "Ignore this just like everything else and hope it goes away—well that hasn't been working—things have gotten worse, if anything, and I am tired of it."

The psychologist was still composed. "Be sensible about this," he said. "It's going to take time. And we're not guaranteed that things will ever be exactly as they once were. Perhaps he's a completely new person now, and you'll have to learn to accept—" He stopped himself mid-sentence, an idea so astute dawning on him like genius. "That's it," he breathed. "Why, it's been there all along."

"What has?" Yami asked, his interest having peaked beyond the extent of his frustration.

"I think the purpose behind all of this pretense," Kei lined out slowly, relishing in his own deductive intellect as if he were Sherlock Holmes, "was for the boy to become a _completely different person_ from who he was. Yes, it's all there," he marveled, his tempo picking up as the details came more fluently to him, "the establishment of a younger age, the matching characteristics and relationships, and now the hair—the image. He's been making himself into someone else, someone who wasn't raped, who never had to deal with such feelings of doubt, guilt, and fear."

"He _has_ been lying."

"—Please don't consider it lying," Kei objected quickly. "He was wounded, and feeling insecure, and wanted to manifest his identity as someone completely different from the boy who had been targeted by a rapist. It makes perfect sense. He's been protecting himself."

"No," Yami disagreed tensely, the edge of hostility creeping back into his voice. "He's been lying…and I have allowed it. He's got to stop running away from the things that scare him. Otherwise, he'll be stuck in this…protective bubble, where he thinks no one can hurt him. But that's wrong. How can he live that way? He ought to be stronger than that. I don't know why he's become so resigned to his fate. I suppose it's partly my fault as well. Maybe there could have been something I did differently all along—my reaction to him, my discipline of him, my expectations from him—"

"Now, don't be rash" Kei entreated him, feeling that his credibility had begun to slip through his fingers like sand. "You've got to be patient and compassionate with him."

Yami stood up. "Patience and compassion have nothing to do with this," he argued in almost a yell. "I cannot allow him to deceive himself any longer. It can't go on. I've been pandering to his every whim, spoiling him in everything he's wanted just because it made him happy. And I've had _you_," he emphasized, narrowing his eyes dangerously at the other man, "breathing down my neck and telling me to go along with the lie that has kept Yugi paralyzed, prisoner to his own game since this whole thing started. I have played along with this elaborate delusion on the unacceptable excuse of _comfort_! No, he deserve so much better than that. I will not coddle the child he'd like to think he's become!"

"Be reasonable," Kei pleaded. It was a last defense.

"Reason?" Yami was furious now, shouting across the desk and glaring down on the alarmed psychologist. "This is the first time I've listened to reason since I became his father! Honestly, how well can you diagnose patients you've never met and know nothing about? You don't know the boy he once was. He would never lay down and die—give up—like he has. I _will not let him_." Yami jabbed an accusing finger in the other man's direction. "You may think I started out if nothing else perhaps a little biased," he continued, "but I assure you, it could not be further from the truth. As soon as he allowed me into his life, he has been the very air I breathe; he has been my thoughts and concerns every waking hour and sleepless night—but the_ moment_ that godless, worthless, senseless, heartless sonofawhore _took him away from me_, I thought there would be no reason to live." His voice broke. He hesitated. "Until I found a hope that he could be the person he once was. And I want him back. But he can't come back to me if I only let him lie to himself." He laughed shortly and bitterly. "No, for the first time in a very long time, I'm thinking clearly. And I have had just about enough of _you_."

_(intercapedo)_

"Daddy, where are we going?"

Yami stormed on, pulling his boy along by the hand. He'd made up his mind. In a moment of fury and frustration, he'd fired the psychologist, and in his blind rage he'd decided to stop standing by ignoring the circumstances and _do something_. Brazen though it may have been, Yami had to believe there was something he could actively do to help his son, rather than continue to play along like some marionette in a spectacular farce. So here he was, dragging Yugi behind him as he strode determinedly down the sidewalk.

"Daddy, where are you taking me?" Yugi asked, distantly aware that this particular stretch of walkway was uncannily familiar to him. There was an apartment building across the street to his right, and up ahead he could see the faded red brick wall of what used to be some kind of grocery store. His father walked on in front of him, weaving to the left and around the corner onto a narrow cement lane between a high fence and the towering red brick wall of what used to be a grocery store.

"Here," Yami said, and stopped, and turned around. "Here—look around you. Just tell me honestly what you remember."

Yugi stared at him. "I don't know, Daddy."

Yami was beginning to get angry. "You must," he insisted, his voice rising, and he took the boy firmly by the shoulders. "This _has_ to mean something to you. You know where we are, don't you? You have to know this place—just tell me!"

Yugi's voice wavered. "Daddy, you're scaring me."

Yami made an almost hissing noise in the back of his throat, and stepped away from his son. "_This_," he demonstrated, gesturing wildly around him. "_Tell me what this means to you._ Tell me—honestly—whatever you know. Stop hiding it from me!"

The boy's lip quivered. He shook his head and wept pitifully, "I don't know."

Abruptly, Yami realized how frightened he was making the child, and he seemed to control his frustration, and he said, gently now, "It's okay, honey. I am not _angry_ with you. You can be honest with me. Just tell me whatever you remember about this place. I will not think badly of you—I want to help."

Yugi sniffled again, and glanced about disinterestedly until his eyes fell to some indeterminable place on the ground, and he became very still, and very quiet, and Yami could feel the tension in his body, like some silent wrath that had been bottled up, that was threatening to bubble over and consume the boy. Yugi's hands had become fists at his side. He said, very softly, "I don't like this place."

Yami stared at him, unable for a moment to decide what it meant. "What do you remember?" he asked, but Yugi didn't respond for a long time, and Yami became worried for him, and stepped near him and laid a hand on his shoulder. His son shied away, sank trembling to his knees and covered his ears with his hands. Like he was trying to drown out some noise Yami couldn't hear. It occurred to him that this might have been a bad idea. "Honey? Honey, it's okay," he said, kneeling down to try and comfort the boy. "You can _talk_ to me—"

Suddenly Yugi was screaming.

Just screaming.

He'd gone somewhere in his mind, drawn back to some painful niche in the timeline of his life, and Yami could do nothing. He stood by mutely, incapable of response, silent spectator to this emotional outburst in a daze that can only be described as shock. Impossibly long seconds later and all at once, the screaming stopped. Yugi's body was motionless, and doubled over on the dirty ground. Yami also sank to his knees, aware now that he'd made a mistake in bringing him here. "Yugi," he said softly, wanting to touch him, to comfort him, but he hesitated in a strange and baseless fear. "Yugi, I'm sorry. Honey? I'm sorry—I shouldn't have made you come here. Yugi? Honey, talk to me." Yami fretted over him tenderly for several moments, begging in his broken way for any sign that the boy was listening, that he could hear, that he understood, that he was all right.

Finally Yugi lifted his tear-stained face and, sniffling, rubbed a hand at his eyes. "I don't like this place," he repeated in a strained voice. "Can we go home now?"

Yami was shocked.

_So you're not going to let me in? _

Something had gone off in the boy's mind—that much was irrefutable—but he still wouldn't talk about it. Yami was too overcome with guilt at his lapse of judgment, however, to dwell on it. "Of course," he said numbly, and helped his son to his feet. They walked home slowly, in much less of a hurry on the return trip. They walked in silence, and the thing that puzzled Yami the most was the fact that Yugi clung to his arm fiercely. He'd had to drag him there, and he figured his son would be too upset to want to be near him now, but instead the boy faithfully sought out his hand to hold as they made their way back to the Turtle Game Shop. Yami didn't know what had returned to his son, or what exactly had frightened him and made him act the way he had, but it was obvious that he was not willing to talk just yet, so they walked home in silence.

Solomon was up in arms when they arrived. "What's going on?" he asked with indignation after Yami dutifully escorted the boy to his room and told him to rest, and that he'd be back in a while. "What happened?" Solomon demanded. "The last thing I knew you were storming out of here and dragging my grandson along, without a word of where you were going or why."

"I know. I'm sorry, Solomon. I fear I made a mistake. I was angry about the advice Kei always gives me, so I fired him," he explained wearily, continuing in spite of the old man's surprise at this news. "His philosophy tends to be ignorance, and I told him I would not allow it anymore. I guess I got carried away. I thought I could do something to help Yugi. I don't know." He paused, chiding himself for the insensitivity of it. "I took him back _there_, Solomon," he admitted at last. "To the place I found him. I don't know what I was trying to prove—why I thought it would bring anything back. Instead it terrified him."

The elderly Mutou shook his head, and his tone was one of disapproval when he said, "That was rather unfeeling of you."

"I realize that," Yami agreed. "I just didn't know what to do. I felt as though everything was up to me—like there was something I had to do right then to make it all better."

Solomon understood now, and his stern countenance softened into compassion. "Well," he exacted gently, "you can't. I appreciate your intentions, but some things just have to take their courses. We don't always know why. Maybe we're not meant to know why. We accept things on simple faith, and go about our lives." The old man sighed. "Don't be troubled, my boy. It'll work itself out."

_(intercapedo)_

Yugi was on the bed, lying on his stomach, idly playing with a small plastic dinosaur when his father entered the room and sat beside him on the mattress. The idle playing ceased. He crossed his arms on the pillow in front of him, and rested his chin on them. Yami's hand was on his back, rubbing his skin through the cotton tee-shirt. "Are you all right?" he asked, at which Yugi gave a small nod. After a pause, he said, "I'm sorry." The boy turned his face away. "Can you forgive me?" Yami tried.

Yugi stirred momentarily. "Yes," he mumbled at last.

Yami sighed, relieved. He rubbed his son's back affectionately, ran his fingers through thick hair. They were silent together. The boy moved his head so that his chin was resting on his arms again, staring forward. Not at his father. Yami removed his hand. Finally, Yugi whispered, "You're not my real Daddy, are you?"

There was not the great sadness that Yami had anticipated. To his surprise, the words fell without effect on his ears, as if they had been expected for some time. So there it was. From now on he wouldn't be Daddy anymore. But Yugi would still be ten, and he would continue to accept his world in half-truths. It was that fact which pained Yami more than the termination of his brief experience of fatherhood. "No," he admitted softly, "I'm not. Does that make you sad?"

"Yes." Yugi turned his head and looked at him. "If you're not my Daddy," he asked, "then who are you?"

Yami glanced away, feeling like a criminal and a liar in that honest and innocent gaze. He swallowed. "I'm a friend," he explained, the pain now beginning to set in, "who loves you very much, and who wants to take care of you, and make sure you're okay." They locked eyes.

Yugi had started to cry, silent tears snaking down his cheeks. He buried his face in his arms. "Can…can I still call you Daddy," he asked, his voice muffled.

_No_, was Yami's rational response. _If you know I'm not your father, let's stop pretending._ But he knew that, ultimately, he was a selfish creature. Being called Daddy was a comfort to him, as he was sure it was to Yugi. It was safe. And familiar. Yes, let's stay here just a little longer. "You can," Yami agreed, "if I can still call you Honey."

_All right, honey. _

_Let us stay here, you and me. _

_I do not care what you remember. You are my precious perfect Yugi. You are all that matters. I will not keep you from your play if it makes you happy. We can stay here in Neverland for as long as it takes. If time is what you need, sweetheart, then we have all the time in the world. _

_Just be you. _

_And I will love you for that._

_(intercapedo)_

It had rained so much lately. Yami paid no mind. There was routine—there was housework—and plenty of chores to do. He and Yugi seemed to have reached a mutual, symbiotic kind of peace. Yugi was still distant, and quiet, but he seemed happy. His gentle and kind nature Yami could not seem to refuse, so the boy got anything he wanted. As long as he did not become conceited, Yami decided to continue treating him in this way. Perhaps it was the entirely wrong method, but he had come to the realization that loving indulgence was far better than pining for things to return to normal, so instead he altered his perception of 'normal,' and things seemed to be working out fine. And then late one drizzly afternoon while Yami was studying the contents of the refrigerator in order to decide what he might make for supper, Solomon found him and asked, concern vaguely resonant in his tone, "Do you know where Yugi is? I can't find him anywhere."

"He asked to play in the rain for a while," Yami replied casually as he closed the fridge and opened a cabinet to rifle through cans of cream of mushroom soup and condensed milk. "He's in the backyard."

"I just looked there a moment ago and didn't see him," Solomon objected.

Yami froze.

"What?"

He was out the back door in a heartbeat, rain pouring down on him as he stood dumbly with his mouth agape. The gate was swinging open. It didn't register until after a full thirty seconds. The gate was wide open. And Yugi was gone. "Oh God," Solomon breathed, also at the back door.

Instinct took Yami, and he darted, wasting no time to explain. There was a strange and sedative calm within his mind as he thought. Yugi had stepped out of the house approximately twenty minutes ago. Even if he started out then, he could not be more than a mile away. If he was walking, Yami could search in concentric circles around the house, and as long as he ran, their paths would eventually cross. Eventually. Unless Yugi was not walking. Unless he knew exactly where he was going, and in such case Yami wondered where that would be, and why he had run away.

The questions and the doubt gnawed away at his theory and his endurance, and eventually panic began to stir the odd quiet of his mind. At a brisk jog, he searched the neighborhood streets. The longer he wandered, the harder it rained. The sky was growing dark with oppressive clouds. This was not one of the friendly showers that had frequented Domino City in the last few weeks—this was turning into a thunderstorm. Yami's clothes were heavy with water, and they weighed him down like the apprehension growing in his heart. The sound of the raindrops hitting the pavement had become a steady, relentless hissing in his ear, and the hopeless, disparaging thought occurred to him that Yugi could be anywhere by now.

_(in media res)_

Yugi stared ahead at the empty building with vacant eyes.

It had all started here. He knew it. Some things you just _know_.

The rain fell in a torrent—in angry little drops—around and through him. Lightning flashed in the sky, and a responding clap of thunder rumbled distantly. Yugi felt somehow removed from it all. He was staring straight ahead at the brick of the almost familiar building, the damp walls of it rising out against the grayness of the sky like an apparition, the secret knowledge of Yugi's past hovering loftily in the air just beyond the boy's perception.

Yugi was not stupid. He realized he was very different from his friends. Something had happened to him—something cruel and unnatural had been done to him. The one who pretended to be his father knew what this thing was, and obviously wanted Yugi to remember, but he couldn't. Not the details anyway. He knew with clarity that it had been raining—not quite so much as today—and that the stranger had spoken to him. He could still hear that serpent voice, laboring eagerly to him from the shadows, "C'mere, boy. You're awfully pretty, boy—has anyone ever told you that? You are. Jus' come here and I'll tell you more about it. Let me see you hair, boy. It's so funny. So funny. Come closer, lemme give you a haircut, pretty little boy—"

Yugi shivered. The rest of the memory was vague—a blur of the man's face, crystalline eyes, the rough texture of the wall as his face was pressed into it, and pain. It was the last memory he had of before. Yugi stared at the building in front of him, his eyes sweeping over the sign: Domino High School. He realized, with little surprise, that he knew what the words said without having to read them. He'd been here before, many times before the point at which he no longer could remember. This place was important. He blinked rain out of his eyes, and stared. The building stared back. The brick walls of the school loomed up like the flanks of some great monster—the memory of his past—that stooped down, urging him, "See." A breeze swept the rain forward into Yugi's face, and ruffled his wet hair affectionately.

_See._

And as he stared, it appeared to Yugi that there was a second scene fabricating over the existing one, and before his eyes the image strengthened its superimposition. He saw a clear blue sky above him and many boys and girls with backpacks milling about in the selfsame schoolyard he now stood. Yugi saw, in this strange double-image, a familiar group of students standing under a tree near the entrance where there was no one now but the rain coming down in sheets. He walked toward them, thinking he might speak with them, but as he neared he began to recognize who they were. By the time he had reached the tree, he could see the rain falling directly through all of them and Yugi knew that they could not really be there. In the gathering was a blonde boy mock-wrestling with a dark haired young man, and a brunette girl stood by laughing at them good-naturedly, and she spoke with a fair featured boy with white hair and a winning smile. And there among them the shortest member stood regarding his companions with amusement. He had very funny hair.

Abruptly, the image disappeared and was replaced by the gray yard wet with rain pouring down from threatening clouds. Another bolt of lightning lit the sky, and Yugi flinched at the instantaneous boom of thunder. He had once been here with his friends, had once existed and behaved in their grown-up manner, had once been able to function completely of his own will, and was happy. He had been here, had lived this life, before the man with the crystalline eyes and serpent voice had taken it away. That sense of loss filled Yugi with a great sadness, and he longed only to weep but knew he could not. There was still much to observe.

He refocused his mind.

_(in media res)_

Finally the residential street let out onto a main road. Yami shivered. He was standing a block down from the grocery store. He could distantly make out the red brick façade through the rain hammering down before his eyes. There was a sickly feeling of déjà vu twisting knots in his stomach. This could not be happening again. Suddenly he found that his feet were being pulled in the direction of the empty building. No. Not there. Not this. He hated this helpless feeling. It was like a nightmare—the further he walked toward it, the farther away the red brick building became. Finally the thing towered before him, and he didn't want to look but he knew he should. He was shaking all over. He walked around the side, heart pounding, turned the corner and—

Nothing.

Of course.

Why would Yugi go back there again? He said so himself—he hated the place.

The relief that washed over him almost caused Yami to laugh out loud, but he couldn't end his search here. Yugi was still out there somewhere, drenched, and freezing, and Yami had to find him. So he tried to slow the frantic beating of his heart and left that place more centered in his mind and less frantic. Yugi was okay. He had to be okay. Nothing bad had happened to him, he just ran away. All kids do that sometimes. For attention.

Yami gathered himself and walked on, still trembling slightly but doing his best to stay focused. Glancing ahead, he saw a familiar figure approaching. He wiped the rain from his face—hoping to catch a clearer glimpse—to find that the figure was _running_ at him. Joey greeted him on the sidewalk, out of breath but appearing to be full of concentrated energy. Thunder rumbled low and threateningly in the distance. "Hey Yami," he hollered over the rain, "I'm glad I found you. Solomon called me. He said he already talked to the police. Where have you looked?" he asked.

"The neighborhood," Yami answered.

"Good. How about this—I'll go search the park," Joey said. "You check out the school. Let's meet back at the shop in a half an hour and go from there. Okay?"

"Yes," he agreed numbly. Countless thankful remarks and perfectly grateful things to say raced across Yami's mind, but he found he was too preoccupied to offer any of them to his friend. When he opened his mouth to say something, he suddenly realized there were tears in his eyes, and he choked up. Seeming to understand, Joey patted him reassuringly on the back and the two went their separate ways.

Yami felt immeasurably better after his encounter with a levelheaded friend. The panic was clearing, allowing him to think more reasonably about the situation. Yes. Yugi had to be just fine. The worst to fear might be a cold induced by the harsh elements. Yami's feet led on through familiar streets and crossings, and he was so distracted that he jumped a little at every shocking bolt of light in the sky, every resounding clap of thunder. Wherever Yugi was, he must have been terrified.

_(in media res)_

_See_, the building coaxed.

This time Yugi closed his eyes and envisioned himself under that clear blue sky, alone in the grass out here. And in this vision, he saw himself turn and walk toward the entrance of the school and to the door, which opened at his approach as if it had expected him. Without hesitation, Yugi crossed the threshold, the sunlight outside casting his shadow before him into the dimness of the interior. _This will not do_, he thought, and the strange notion that it was the voice of the building and not his own that spoke within his mind occurred to him. _Now, how did it look on the inside?_

Slowly, one corner at a time as he recalled the details of the place, the room lit to reveal a large commons with linoleum floor, lockers lining the back wall, and various hallways branching out to his left and right. When the room had been revealed him, he began to see and hear things all around him. Figures took form as students passed him, chatting animatedly. A band rehearsed somewhere, brassy notes reverberating throughout the hallways. A voice on the intercom system announced that lunch detention would be held in gym C. A teacher loudly reprimanded a student for violating dress code.

Inexplicably, Yugi was jostled in among the crowd, and he did not resist, instead allowing the current to carry him where it willed. He entered a hallway to discover he was passing various academic rooms where students talked leisurely between classes. There appeared an office with glass windows off to his left, and he could see a frazzled-looking receptionist inside, at her desk. The walls then dropped away sharply and Yugi found himself in the cafeteria. Various smells wafted in through the kitchen and students lingered at the tables. A boy at the edge of his peripheral vision laughed harshly, and he turned in time to see a careless student throw a wadded piece of paper at someone bent over an unidentifiable spill with a mop in hand.

Yugi's blood went cold.

The man with the mop gritted his teeth at the projectile that bounced off his neck, and he glared up at Yugi with the utmost contempt. Those ice-blue hungry eyes burned into him. At once the other occupants of the room faded away into darkness again, and there was only the man and Yugi. Fear gripped him as he realized the serpent-voiced tormentor of his dreams and this man with his mop were one and the same. There was suddenly a sharp, piercing pain in his right temple, and the vision dissipated as Yugi, on the outside and in the rain, cried out and clenched his head in his hands.

He felt as if his skull would split with the sudden overload of broken images, sounds, and fragments of memory that flooded his mind: The headstone of a grave somewhere, Grandpa Solomon in the shop that he owned. The breath escaping the tiny lungs of a baby bird that stiffened and died in Yugi's hand. The gambit in a peculiar card game he and Joey played. Calculating the angle of a parabola at his desk in his room. A small golden pyramid that whispered to him. Purple-crimson eyes. The backs of four outstretched hands with thick marker lines of some childish drawing. Bakura laughing darkly. Crying and crying into his pillow about mom. The warmth of hot chocolate running down his throat. Staring at a playing card held between his fingers and reading aloud: Dark Magician. The man he knew as Daddy watching over him guardedly as he studied. A snippet of some song about the Maelstrom of Love.

And—finally—the man's heavy grasp on his arms as he cried in pain and struggled, and then a hand on his cheek, locked on his jaw, that pushed the side of his head suddenly and violently against a rough wall.

And then blackness.

_(in media res)_

Eventually the lightning relented and the rain eased off. Yami looked up through the drizzle that was left to discover with some surprise that he had inadvertently walked to the high school. Funny. Why had he thought to go there? The last school Yugi had attended was the elementary school. Why had Yami's subconscious navigational mind led him here? He was about to turn and leave, in the direction of the grade school, when he spied a familiar shape huddled under a tree across the campus. Yami sighed.

It will be in the last place you look.

His relief at having found Yugi thwarted his impulsive frustration at the entire ordeal, and he ran. The nearer he came to the figure sitting on the ground under the shelter of the tree, the more certain he was. The hair, even when wet, was unmistakable. Finally Yami was within range, and he was soon on the wet ground beside the boy. "Yugi," he said, instantly throwing his arms around him in a fierce hug. "Honey, I was so worried about you." He pulled away momentarily to look him over. "Are you all right? Yugi, are you hurt?"

"No," he said, allowing the hands to sweep damp bangs out of his face, inspect his arms for cuts, bruises. There was a strange and dull expression in his eyes that went unnoticed.

"I'm so glad," Yami exclaimed instead, and pulled Yugi into another hug. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, okay?"

"Okay," the boy mumbled against him.

"You promise you won't run away again?" Yami asked. "Promise me, Yugi."

Yugi sniffled, and whispered, "I promise, Yami."

—The air left Yami's lungs in one crushing exhale. His eyes slammed shut. He felt a tingling sensation run down his spine. The boy had not called him by that name in a long time. Not since before he lost his memory. The implication of it nearly incapacitated his mind's ability to form the vagrant and frenzied thoughts into one sensible question. "What," he asked, his throat constricting instinctively, "…did you call me?"

"I called you _Yami_," Yugi answered.

Yami drew back. Afraid this might be some beautiful dream that would flutter away like a startled bird if he acted too quickly, he took a long moment to compose himself and finally opened his eyes to look at Yugi—really _look_ at him. Something had changed. It was obvious now. Some haze had been lifted after so long a time of living in darkness. It took the span of a dozen audible heartbeats drumming in his ears to actually register with Yami, and then he just simply didn't know what to do. _What does one do_, he asked himself. _Where do we go from here, after everything we've been through together? How do we go back to being friends, after I've known you so intimately as my adoring son? How can everything end like this, so suddenly? How will I live my life without your endearing exaltation of me, your father? How will I survive? _

_The only way I can—one moment at a time. Starting with this one. _

_Yugi, you've come back to me._

At length, Yami lifted a hand, and traced the lines of Yugi's face—so tenderly—with his fingertips, as if he were memorizing the boy's features all over again. As if he were coming home. That chin, those lips, youthful perfect nose, eyebrow, lashes, cheekbone. "Yugi—I," he stuttered foolishly, new tears mingling with the rain on his face, "…I _missed_ you."

Yugi had begun to cry at this point, as well, and they regarded each other wordlessly—two average enough boys, it would seem—best friends, truest allies, confidants, partners, companions. All they were and had ever been. They embraced there under a tree and in the rain, and together they wept…

_(intercapedo)_

Yugi sat back from his story and sighed deeply—weary, it seemed, from the telling. "It took a long time for things to be…normal…again," he explained with a sigh. "Even now I'm a year behind in school." He fell silent, staring thoughtfully down at the sticky surface of the lunch table.

The new girl, who had been raptly fixed upon his every word, became suddenly aware of the penetrative quiet. She cleared her throat lightly and asked, as gently as she could, "What was the hardest part about coming back?"

Yugi glanced at each of his friends, who gazed back at him expectantly. He could almost feel their unspoken support surge up around him, and he was comforted. "Facing my friends," he admitted at last. "I felt like I'd put everyone through so much, how could things possibly go back to normal? I felt so…embarrassed. That took a while to get over. It was especially hard at those times when all I wanted to do was run home and bury my face in my pillow." His eyes had grown distant as he continued to recollect. "Sometimes things are still hard for me. Sometimes I'll relapse into this feeling of fear or insecurity." He smiled. "But Yami's there. He's always there."

"He sounds like an amazing person," the new girl remarked, awed by the image of someone so utterly loyal to a set of principals that his world spun on its axis around the interests and well-being of this one boy.

Yugi nodded solemnly. "More so than you can imagine," he agreed.

"Do you think," she asked shyly, painfully aware of the blush creeping into her cheeks, "I could meet him someday?"

"I'm sure," he replied with a smile. "He likes meeting my friends."

"Yeah, but don't be alarmed when he acts all standoffish before you get to know him," Joey chimed in. "That's normal. It means he likes you."

"He's a sweet guy," Tea giggled. "And the way he cares for Yugi will just melt you."

Yugi chuckled. "I've actually slipped up a couple times and called him 'Daddy.' It feels so natural. Granted I apologize and everything, but I think it reassures him. And to be honest, it makes me feel better, too. There's familiarity in it. There's a feeling of safety. It's like knowing he'll be there to catch me should I fall," he explained, his voice growing strained with emotion. "And with that knowledge, everything else seems…"

"—Bearable," Joey finished his friend's thought, laying a hand on the shoulder of Yugi, whose eyes were welling with tears. "It's okay, Yuug. We know."

The boy sniffled, wiping a tear from his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. "I was lucky," he said. "And I mean—_really_ lucky. I could have been killed. I was in a coma, but I came out of it. People can stay in comas for years. Mine lasted hours. I had amnesia—I don't anymore. I could've gotten _anything_," he said, shuddering at the thought. "Tetanus, AIDS, any STD. You name it. I get tested periodically, of course, just to be sure," he explained, "but as far as I know, I didn't catch anything. There's something to be said of providence in that. It's something to be infinitely thankful for." His sight landed with great affection around the table. "And my friends," he said. "They've never once abandoned me. Every one is so dear, and I couldn't have gotten to where I am today without their help." Yugi looked up at the new girl again. "You're fortunate to have all of them," he told her. "These are the best friends anyone could hope to have. They'll never let you down."

The girl glanced at each of them, feeling strangely as if she knew them so well already. The introspective and polite Bakura with his music and his dance. Sensible and gentlemanly Tristan, who tended to let his inclination toward the fairer sex cloud his better judgment. Outgoing and sensitive Tea—matriarch and loving supporter of the group. Good old dependable Joey, who could always be counted on to deliver some sound piece of advice disguised as jest. The sweet and gentle Serenity—who was absent from the table. Fiercely protective Yami. And Yugi. Bright-eyed, intelligent, and eager to live.

"It's such an inspiring story," she commented. "I'm a writer, you see? It's what I'm studying to do. With your permission, may I please write all of this down? With different names and such? I think it has great potential to reach people."

Yugi smiled at her. "Sure," he said. "And if you don't mind, I'd like to read it when you're finished."

"Of course," she replied, and the rush and clamor of the cafeteria traffic swelled up around the humble group of friends, their closely tied and lasting history invisible to the passersby. You know them well. You may even be one of them. The ones that last. This is their story, and therefore yours. It is for them that I have written it all down. Yugi, Joey, Tea, Tristan, Bakura—and Diana. Their table fell hush once more to a silence that was altogether comforting, and familiar.


	15. Retribution

Night. After another long day of work. The man parked his dirty white '88 Toyota Celica on the driveway stained deeply over the course of many years by a number of automotive fluids. He didn't bother pulling the car into the garage, which was packed with an assortment of worn-out furniture, tools he never used, and other abandoned junk. His car had not seen the inside of the garage since he first moved into the cramped house twenty years ago—a lifetime ago—when he was still engaged, when he still had hope of leading a normal, healthy life. Things had gone to hell since then. Layoffs at the company, a cancelled wedding, bankruptcy, credit cards maximized. He'd become a broken man, a creature of habit, had settled for a dead-end job he hated, and no longer found any joy in life.

The man got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked up to the house through the patch of lawn. The grass was overrun with weeds and had grown so tall that the blades bent over with their own weight. Landscaping was a thing of the past, like shutters and a new paint job—one more forsaken dream. The knob twisted at his touch while the man fumbled with his key, and the door swung open on a creaky hinge. It did not surprise him. He often forgot to lock it. Stepping into the hallway, he flicked the nearby light switch. Nothing happened. Peculiar. He could have sworn that was one bill he _had_ paid this month. No matter. There was a flashlight in the living room closet.

Holding a hand out to feel along the wall, the man stumbled his way down the short hallway, kicking aside trash and shoes and other unidentifiable things on the floor. The wall gave way. He was in the living room. He tossed his keys down on the easy chair, where they landed with a muffled clinking against articles of dirty laundry and old newspapers. He turned to his left and took a step toward the closet door, and froze. Maybe it was the sound of steady breathing that tipped him off. Maybe the hint of warmth before him. Maybe the foreign smell of some clean aftershave. Someone else was in the room. "Hell—o," he asked aimlessly, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.

"Good evening Jack," said a calm voice from the darkness. "I assume you were looking for this."

The beam of the flashlight suddenly shone across the room and painfully struck at the back of his retina. "Who the hell are you," he asked, squinting into the light and frozen to the spot with fear. The voice chuckled, and the light began to move in a slow circle around him. Jack had the distinct impression he was being hunted. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Compensation," the voice growled as it circled.

"Did Tony send you?" Beads of perspiration were running down his face, and he held a hand up to shield his eyes. "I swear I'll pay back the loan. It's just been harder to get the money together than I'd thought."

The circling stopped. "I'm not here to collect your _debts_," the voice spat, and the flashlight was raised, and the luminosity played up against the facial features of the bearer of the voice. The silhouetted hair was unmistakable.

"You're that kid," Jack realized aloud, feeling his heart rush with panic. The beam of the flashlight was in his eyes again, and an arm was raised to just within view, the hand clutching the silver chain affixed to a familiar golden pyramid.

"This was stolen," cooed the voice. "You really ought to be mindful of where your keys are at all times. Entering your office, finding both the bloody knife and _this_," he demonstrated, swinging the golden pyramid gently in the light, "and then exiting without my presence detected was child's play as soon as I had your keys. You didn't even miss them." The golden pyramid swung slowly like a pendulum ticking away the seconds. "The business of revenge," the voice said, "is a very delicate process. It requires unparalleled amounts of patience, temperance, and nerve. One has to collect evidence and facts before making assumptions. One has to wait quietly, in the shadows, for the opportune moment to take action. I have been watching you for some time now. I have been privy to every move you make, every bar you visit, every filthy magazine you purchase at the corner gas station on alternate Tuesdays." A pause. The voice chuckled. "It's an unsettling thing to be stalked. Do you feel violated yet?"

Jack was trembling. "You're not the kid, are you?" he asked.

The arm and the golden pyramid were lowered from view, and there was a metal jingling sound as the chain was slipped around his neck. "Quite the deduction," the voice mocked. "Perhaps you're more intelligent than I'd anticipated."

"Wh—who are you," Jack stammered.

"Someone who is very, very angry," the voice said.

Jack was growing anxious at these mysterious comments. "What the fuck do you want from me," he yelled at the man, feeling cornered.

There was a long pause, as if the bearer of the voice were drawing him out, enjoying the torture of silence. "I want you to suffer," the voice replied at last, seething with hatred, "like you made my boy suffer. I want you to be _disgraced_. I want you to hate yourself."

Jack swallowed. "Are you going to kill me?"

"…Should I?"

He was shaking all over. "No," he answered.

"Why ever not?" the voice asked in a singsong jeer. "Why should I give you a second chance? An _animal_ like you doesn't deserve to live."

"Maybe not," Jack agreed. "I'll turn myself in, okay? The court can decide my punishment."

"…No. You'll get six months, at the most. I don't want that for you. I don't want you to do a little hard time, get bitched up in jail, and become a 'changed man.' I don't want you to come back to this neighborhood—these streets—a registered sex offender. Just another dent in your record, a social red flag," the voice said. "That would be too good for you."

"It would ruin my life," Jack argued, desperate for a way out. "My career would be over."

"_Career_," the voice laughed darkly. "What career?"

He set his jaw. "It's not for you to decide whether I live or die," he yelled. "It's not your right!"

"My right?" The voice was advancing, forcing Jack to step back. "No. Not my right. But _his_. My boy. Your victim. It's _his_ right, his recompense, his justice! And any other defenseless child you have harmed in your cruel and twisted lifetime."

"Hey, you don't know what it's like," Jack accused, jabbing the air in front of him with a finger, "to go to this demeaning job day in, day out—to clean up after these shit-faced brats who think they own the place—to be subjected to manual labor, plunging toilets, mopping vomit, picking up trash. I watch these spoiled teenagers with their cellular phones and mp3 players and personal computers and expensive clothing go about their lives, practice their sports games, and sing in their precious choirs. It _sickens_ me!"

"They're children, you monster," the voice growled. "They're just _children_. They get educations. They grow up. They become sensible adults. They are the future. They should be protected, not despised."

Jack laughed, backing up until he felt the wall behind him. "They're pathetic little snobs. That's all." Enough was enough. If this altruistic mercenary was going to kill him, he at least wanted to rattle his cage first. "You know why it was your boy?" he asked after a moment. "He was an easy target. He left school late. Alone. That's all. And the dumb little fuck cut behind an abandoned building. He was _asking_ for it. I walked around the other side, met up with him in no time. He wasn't even watching where he was going or who was around him. He was distracted. And in combination with the rain and the isolation, it was easy." Jack paused to see how this was being received. There was no response. The flashlight was held by a steady hand. "You want to know what really got me hard for your boy," he continued, understanding perfectly well the dangerous ground he was on. "It was the hair. My god, the hair. I'd seen him before at the school and would recognize him anywhere. How could I not? It was so damn hilarious. That's what drew me to him. I didn't actually want to fuck him, you know. I just _had_ to. Because I was so damned fed up with cleaning these bastards' messes. And because of the hair." He chewed his lip. "Looking back now, though…it was worth it. He's pretty when he cries."

The flashlight hit the floor with a clang, loosing the batteries from their port and causing the light to die out suddenly. Jack didn't have time to react before the other man was on him, pinning him to the wall with surprising force in a hand locked tightly around his neck. He couldn't breathe. "You unspeakable son of a bitch," the voice whispered hoarsely into his ear. "One shred of sanity prevents me from tearing out your carotid artery this very instant. I would _love_ to make you feel the same pain my boy suffered." The nails in Jack's skin bit down emphatically. His world was spinning from lack of oxygen. "But I'm stronger than that," the voice explained. "It was your feeling of inferiority, your weakness, that led you to harm my boy, and it is my strength that holds me back now." The voice chuckled, a sinister irony. "After all," it cooed, "I do not want the police to suspect foul play. I have been planning this moment for a very long time," he hissed. "_No one. Touches. _My _hikari_, and lives to brag about it."

Suddenly the Millennium Puzzle around his neck began to glow with an unearthly light and Yami held up his free hand, and from his palm came a wave of dark energy, and blackness took Jack.

After several days of absence from work, the police arrived to find an empty shell of a man, which was no less than he deserved.


End file.
